Eviscerated
by Libellule
Summary: Dean’s physical and emotional boundaries are broken. Sam does his best to hold everything together. Ch6 quote: 'Dean,' Sam thought panic-stricken. 'God, please-please-' Sam raged against his poison prison, unsuccessfully willing his body to his command.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "Everybody Loves a Clown" and "Born Under a Bad Sign"

Summary: Dean's physical and emotional boundaries are broken. Sam does his best to hold everything together.

Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean, but very "smarmy"

Rating: R for language, horrific imagery and graphic descriptions

Warnings: MAJOR Crack!fic (cannot stress this enough), hurt!Dean, mpreg, demons, horror, graphic descriptions— think ER on SPN!crack. This story, while mpreg, is not Wincest or slash. Some might consider this to be "pre-wincest" as the brothers have a very close relationship. Read at your own discretion.

A/N: Please read the warnings! And please keep in mind that this _is_ a crack!fic. To be taken with a grain of salt. Credit must go to Pinetranio, who was the test audience for this fic. Thank you!

o0o00O00o0o

_Eviscerated_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

_Sam looked down at his brother strewn across the table, horrorstruck. Traumatized didn't even begin to touch the violent and overwhelming emotions rising up inside of Sam._

_Blood spilled down Dean's prone body, bright and shocking, and someone was shouting at Sam to _snap out of it_, but all he could do was gape while his mind numbly went blank and his brother's blood flowed softly along the slab._

o0o00O00o0o

Montana seemed an unlikely place for demons with Hindu ties, but Sam Winchester was certain that rakshasas were responsible for the sudden surge in lost cattle and missing people. The Winchester brothers had come up against a rakshasa once before, but nothing could have prepared them for what was to come.

It started when ancient artifacts went missing from a Hindu Studies exhibit from the University of Montana's Department of Anthropology. In a trail two hours southeast of the campus, livestock disappeared and people who went into the woods never came out again. Some remains were found— pickings leftover— human carcasses with their insides chewed out.

One man caught a glimpse of the creatures, described them as the most vicious looking dogs he'd ever seen, black as soot, with a shock of yellow hair between the ears and fangs protruding from their mouths, would swear that the faces had almost human qualities.

Rakshasas could shape shift into a human or an animal form depending on their prey or preference.

Sam's theory was that the demons had been sealed inside the ancient idols that had gone missing. Somewhere along the way the seal had been broken and they'd been released into the Montana wilds. From the evidence left behind, these rakshasas appeared to be more feral and primitive than the one they'd previously encountered, which Sam felt supported his theory that they had been locked inside the missing idols, possibly for thousands of years.

While half-eaten human and animal remains could be attributed to any number of things, it was too much of a coincidence that the loss of Hindu artifacts corresponded with the missing people and animals. If one knew what to look for there was a clear trail starting in the woods by the school that lead all the way to Dillon, where the Winchesters had tracked the ravenous demons to be currently.

o0o00O00o0o

The heat of the day lingered even as the sun disappeared behind gray clouds, but the breeze that rustled the trees was cool and spoke of rain.

Sam felt the tempered air sweep over his face as he got out of the car and joined his brother at the Impala's open trunk. He tossed a worn copy of the Ramayana into the trunk atop a stack of other ancient books and watched as Dean rummaged patiently through the small arsenal. Without looking up from his searching, Dean held out a gun and Sam tucked the proffered weapon into the waistband of his pants.

It had taken six days of investigation and tracking and plotting to lead them here to this location and Sam was more than ready to dispel these demons. While they were as prepared for this as they were for any hunt, Sam was ill at ease, feeling pins and needles under his skin, a thrill of anticipation in his gut.

These demons were savage and it bothered Sam how different they seemed from the last rakshasa they had come across. That one had at least been able to feign civility well enough to blend in with human beings. Just thinking about the human remains that had been found this time around made Sam's stomach lurch.

He surveyed Dean in his preparations, a calm before the storm. His brother relished these moments, couldn't deny his love of the hunt and all it's machinations. Sometimes Dean tired of it, grew weary, but not now in the moment just before— he basked in the gloaming of the hunt.

Reaching around Dean, Sam pulled a flask of holy water and a small canister of salt from the trunk, slipping each into his jacket pockets— just in case.

The brothers packed lightly for this hunt. Only consecrated bullets and knives of brass would kill a full-grown rakshasa and this Montana forest stretched for miles in any direction— they did not want to be hauling unnecessary gear God knows how far in search of the demons.

"Ah," Dean said with a satisfied chuckle, "beautiful." He straightened, an unfinished wooden box engraved with a simple cross on the top held firmly between his hands. He pushed back the lid on its tarnished hinge and revealed a store of bullets.

They didn't have a brass knife or a brass organ pipe as they did last time, but they had this cache of blessed bullets that had been sanctified by Pastor Jim himself. These bullets would kill a rakshasa instantly.

"Don't let them scratch you," Dean said, glancing at Sam as he double-checked his gun and pocketed an extra magazine with blessed rounds. He passed the box to Sam who dutifully loaded his own weapon. "Their claws are poisonous in their natural form. Won't kill you, but it'll slow you down."

They set out across a field of wild grass heading towards the thick forest, leaving the Impala parked well off the paved road. Sam, with map in hand, nodded to his right. "This way," he told Dean, leading them into the forest.

Thunder rumbled ominously, a low growl forewarning the storm to come. Rain cast down from the white-gray sky above. Though not heavy, it came in steady, continuous drops that made the forest crackle and pop. The brothers were soaked through in less than a half hour as they trekked through the Montana woods.

"No birds," Dean observed and Sam looked up and listened, hearing nothing but rain on the trees and gentle rolls of thunder.

"We must be close," Sam said.

A lot of people had recently gone missing in Dillon, over half a dozen in two weeks. For whatever reason the rakshasas had stopped their roaming and settled in the small town. "They're nesting," Dean had guessed.

Neither brother said anything more; they communicated with quiet looks and quick gestures, a silent language all their own as they spread out and searched for the pair of demons.

From the corner of his eye, Sam kept Dean within his line of sight and he knew his brother was doing the same of him.

With day quickly turning into night, the brothers were eager to find the demons. If they turned invisible, as they were apt to do when discovered, in the dark it would be deadly. Judging by the sickening state of the found remains, these rakshasas were vicious and it would only take a second for things to go south.

Tall trees rose around them like sentinels, keepers of the forest, mostly untouched by man. The rain, nightfall, the trees— with his vision nearly rendered useless, Sam closed his eyes and listened, trying to hear sounds of the demons. He knew they were close—the absence of all other creatures in the forest told him so.

Sam's footsteps crackled unpleasantly under his weight. He stilled, pausing in mid-step. Lightning flashed as he looked down, the bright flare illuminating a mass of dead insects under his feet— _thousands_ of dead insects.

He had walked right into their nest.

"_Dean,"_ Sam said sharply.

His brother turned towards him, eyes widening, bringing his gun to attention and shouted, "Sam, drop!"

Growling met his ears but there was nothing to see except for the faint outline of a rakshasa with a coat of rainwater betraying its invisible form.

Sam dived and Dean took his shot. The rakshasa leapt deftly, but the bullet still hit its mark, clipping the demon's left shoulder. The demon howled in pain and rage, returning to its visible form.

It was larger than an average sized wolf, fur jet black with patch of yellow between its ears. Two large teeth extended down from its upper jaw and the demon abruptly opened its mouth baring the rest of its teeth in a kind of ominous grin. Angered, but not dead, it charged Dean, barreling at him at top speed.

When, in an impressive display of either nerve or stupidity, Dean held his ground and lined up for another shot, the demon suddenly diverted going around him and ran off into the cover of trees.

"_Son of a bitch,"_ Dean cursed, checking his shot just in time to spare the blessed bullet. Though usually swift, the injured demon's speed was significantly slowed by the shoulder wound. Keeping that in mind, Dean chased after it.

Sam pushed himself up to follow his brother when he realized, _It's trying to lure us away from the nest._

Raising his gun, Sam scanned the area for signs of the other one. A soft whining met his ears before Sam saw it. Slowly creeping away, the other demon, the female, the rakshasi, was between visible and invisible states as if the transformation was too strenuous on her very pregnant form. The demon's eyes were soft and pleading, knowing that Sam was a threat to her and her unborn.

It was almost as if she had read Sam's mind for before he could cock his gun, the rakshasi was on him, claws bared, giving Sam barely a chance to move before a set of scratches grazed across his shoulder.

Sharp pain blossomed down his arm and Sam was momentarily disoriented, the poison in the demon's nails making him weak. The gun slipped through numb fingers and landed onto the muddy earth with a _squelch._

The rakshasi used up all her speed in her swift attack on Sam, but her intent was not offensive so much as evasive as it bought her time for a slow but sure escape. She was in no condition to fight; her baby would be born any day now.

Sam's brain felt sluggish and he blinked trying to clear his head. He bent to pick up his weapon, but swayed unsteadily on his feet, clutching his bleeding and numb arm. _Not good_, Sam thought.

The darkening forest swam before his eyes and suddenly Dean was by his side, fisting his jacket in a supportive grip, a look of annoyance mixed with worry on his face.

_It got away_, Sam thought.

"…Dean," Sam began, trying to ask. Dean's hair was dark with rain and Sam thought fleetingly that he looked very much like their father in this instant, especially as he triaged the wound along Sam's arm.

"Easy, Sammy. Let me look," Dean said pulling at the torn fabric. His fingers searched the bloody gashes, making Sam hiss in protest. "She got you good," Dean announced. "But you don't need stitches."

"Sh'got 'way," Sam slurred, "but sh'slow."

"Relax," Dean replied, casually calm, though Sam knew better. Gripping Sam's hand, he squeezed his fingers. "Can you feel this?"

A worried look crossed Sam's face in slow motion. "Don't think so," Sam said. He saw a grin buried in Dean's eyes, but before he could ask _what's so funny,_ Dean pinched the flesh of Sam's palm, trapping skin between his thumb and fingernail.

"_Ow!"_ Sam said, pulling his hand out of Dean's grasp. "Jerk." The sharp pain cleared some of the cobwebs in Sam's head as he shook his hand out.

Dean grinned. "Guess you felt _that_. You're gonna be fine." Dean reached into Sam's jacket pocket, retrieving the flask of holy water. He doused the claw marks with a liberal amount. The cuts bubbled and burned momentarily but Sam felt the poison burning off, his mind finding focus again.

"Which way did she go?" Dean asked, "We can still get her."

Sam gestured in the direction that he'd last seen the rakshasi go.

He prodded Sam into motion with a hand at the small of his back before taking the lead. As Sam walked, the rest of the cobwebs cleared and feeling recirculated into his arm. He followed after Dean, picking up his pace.

If a scratch caused this much damage, Sam could only imagine what a bite would do. Those people they killed never had a chance at escape. They would have been paralyzed, helpless to even scream as the demons devoured them.

The brothers were silent, scanning the forest cautiously. Dean had wounded the male of the pair, but had lost track of him in the dark forest. The female demon was sluggish, her engorged belly slowing her escape, and it was only a matter of time before they got her. But she was desperate, the motives of a mother to be protecting her unborn offspring. And nothing was more dangerous than a desperate demonanimal.

It was still raining with no signs of letting up, poor visibility in miserable conditions.

Dean cast a glance at Sam, tilting his head slightly. _You okay?_ he asked with a look.

Sam nodded, understanding, and they separated.

He checked his gun. The clip was still full, not a single shot taken. Sam wouldn't make the same mistake twice. The scratch stung in the rainwater but no longer numbed him. His gun was ready as his eyes scanned the area for the dog-like demons.

Wind shook the forest and Sam looked up, the trees black against a twilight blue sky. In less than ten minutes, the sky would be completely dark, not even the stars discernible through the overcast night.

After few moments of careful surveying Sam realized that he'd lost track of Dean. He hadn't meant to stray so far from his brother, but in these weather conditions with poor visibility, they covered more ground split up.

He suddenly had a strong feeling that he needed to find Dean _now_. Sam looked to his left and then to his right, straining to make out anything in the darkness. He cursed first the rain and the thick forest and then his foolhardy sibling. Dean was, of course, nowhere in sight.

Four gunshots in rapid succession and the sound of his brother screaming forced Sam's heart to twist into his throat.

Sam scrambled to gain purchase, the mud sliding under his feet. He could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard Dean scream.

Fear propelling him beyond reason, Sam stumbled over unseen rocks and shrubs, the night like a plague of blindness to his frantic eyes. The only guide to his brother was the sound of his panicky breathing— Sam struggled to hear it over the roaring in his own ears.

It was luck that sent him in the right direction and in the last moments of light Sam, spotted his brother on the ground up ahead.

The demon was dead, that much was plain to see even as night fell upon them, but Dean was curled next to the corpse, arms wrapped tightly around himself.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, sliding to a stop on the ground beside his brother, like a base runner stealing home plate.

"I don't— _oh God—,_" Dean gasped. "Shit— _shit!" _

"What is it?" Sam asked, hands trying to pry away Dean's from his abdomen. He didn't see any blood, but Dean was soaking wet, his clothes dark with water, hiding any red that might stain them. "Let me see."

"I can feel it," Dean hissed, his voice edgy with thinly veiled panic.

Sam finally forced Dean's hands free. He pushed back his shirt and probed his fingers along the red claw-like scratches across Dean's stomach. That's when he felt it move.

"_Holy shit,"_ Sam whispered, drawing his hand back as if burned. He looked from the deflated demon corpse to Dean. "Her baby—."

"It's in me," Dean finished.

o0o00O00o0o

If they weren't both so freaked out about this whole thing, Sam might have teased Dean into next week about essentially being _pregnant_. But the demon's progeny was growing fast— a noticeable bump would form in less than an hour— leeching its strength from Dean's body. At this rate, the thing would be born by dinnertime.

"How did it happen?" Sam had asked as he helped his brother to his feet.

"She just didn't stop no matter how many bullets—." Dean's voice shook. "She clawed me deep and there was just this _surge_ and black smoke—." But there was very little blood; the entry wound had resealed itself inside of a minute.

It was nearly pitch black, not even a handful of stars to guide them in the overcast sky above. Though Sam was well trained and knew the way that would lead them back to the car, his innate sense of direction did not help navigate them around the rocks and shrubs and whatever else hindered their path across the darkness; it did nothing to ease the miles they had to walk.

_Why didn't we bring a flashlight?_ Sam thought as they stumbled their way through the forest. Stupidly, they thought they had plenty of daylight to work with— a scenario like this hadn't even entered their heads. With Dean trying to hold himself _in_ and Sam holding his brother up, there really weren't hands enough for a flashlight anyway.

"We're almost there," Sam lied, the words of encouragement for himself just as much as for Dean. "Just a little bit further."

"Sam, shut _up_," Dean ground out, never one for being coddled.

Dean was trying to shake it off, pretend like it was nothing, like he wasn't freaked to hell, but it was clear to Sam that the more he moved the more pain he was in.

_Just get us to the car,_ Sam thought, trying to beat back his own alarm by keeping his focus on small, manageable tasks. _One thing at a time. Worry about what to _do_ later._ It felt like a hundred miles as Dean clung to him, unsteady on his feet.

Water dripped from Sam's mop of hair, though he hardly felt it against his cold skin. He noticed that he was shivering only after he recognized the same symptoms of cold in Dean. This was quickly becoming one of the worst situations they'd ever found themselves in. Sam would have laughed if he didn't think it would come out crazed.

The rain finally tapered off as they made it to the edge of the forest where the trees thinned abruptly before a clearing of grass. Clouds mercifully drifted across the sky, revealing a patchwork of stars.

"I see the Impala, Dean. We're nearly there," Sam said with a relieved smile. "I'll never say another word against her, I swear."

Dean let out a short sigh, but did not follow this with one of his trademark snarky comments. Troubled, Sam pressed on until he was able to lean Dean against the back door, just long enough to open the passenger's side door.

Dean resisted, muttering, "Get towels. Not gonna ruin my car."

"Your priorities are really skewed, you know that?" Sam groused as he hurried around to the trunk to retrieve the Clorox-white towels that Dean had swiped from a Motel four jobs ago.

Throwing one down on the front seat, he peeled off Dean's wet jacket, tossed it into the back, and then manhandled Dean into car. As Sam dropped another towel over Dean's head and rubbed the water from his hair, a long forgotten memory came to the surface— eleven-year-old Dean doing the same for him after a bath, toweling his head vigorously while little Sammy laughed with delight. It was before Sam knew what their family business really was.

"Lay off," Dean said, giving Sam a light shove. Sam smiled a little before toweling himself off and getting behind the wheel.

The sounds of Dean's uneven breathing filled the car and as Sam stared out the windshield into the darkness he thought, _What the hell do we do now?_

o0o00O00o0o

Sam knew Dean was panicked because he hadn't said more than two words since they got in the car— no jokes, not even humming— keeping silent in order to keep it _all in_. Dean was pale and sweating, his breath becoming more labored as he tried to hide his discomfort. Every so often he would intake sharply, eyes pressed tight as if he could will the whole thing away.

The baby, Sam realized, was growing at an alarming rate— doing _God knows what_ to his brother's insides in order to survive in a human body.

There was nothing in all the lore and literature written about rakshasas that mentioned anything like this happening. Sam had read about mothers doing desperate things to protect their babies, but this was a new one.

Sam called Bobby first thing, describing what had happened. The news hadn't been good. _It has to come out before it gets itself out._

Bobby called him back forty-five minutes later with the name of a doctor— he called in a favor and a friend of a friend knew someone who might be able to help. He was over in Winnett, more than 300 miles northeast of where they were. If Sam drove nonstop, they could make it there by sun up.

_He's a retired surgeon— used to patch up guys in Vietnam. Meatball surgery,_ Bobby said. _He's worked on hunters before. He'll be as prepared as anyone can be for something like this. _

"Stop the car," Dean said suddenly.

Sam glanced at his brother, easing on the brakes.

"_God, Sam, pull over!" _

Dean was out of the car and on his knees before the Impala came to a full stop. He vomited the contents of his stomach onto the yellowing grass swaying by the side of the highway.

Sam came around the car, knelt next to his brother and put a comforting hand on his back, feeling the spasms as Dean heaved bile until there was nothing.

"This sucks," Dean said miserably. He pushed himself up with a groan, batting Sam's hand away even though he reeled unsteadily upon his feet.

Sam was right there anyway, staying close to his side. Despite Dean's protests Sam was the only thing keeping his ass from hitting the pavement and they both knew it.

"Quit hovering," Dean said, though didn't even pretend to push Sam away. "Soon as the ground stops spinning, I'm gonna knock you six ways from Sunday."

"Can't wait," Sam replied, helping his brother back to the passenger's seat. Dean couldn't hold back a grunt from the exertion. He blinked, fighting a wave of dizziness, letting his head fall back against the headrest.

Sweat trickled down his brow, an unhealthy flush coloring his ashen face. Like the time-honored tradition of mothers everywhere, Sam pressed the back of his hand to Dean's forehead, feeling a hot sting against his skin.

"_Jesus_, Dean," Sam said. "You're burning up."

He expected a lame joke— he _wanted_ one. A _Told ya I was hot_, or off-key humming of Blue Oyster Cult's _Burning for You,_ or at the very least he thought he would complain away from Sam's touch, but Dean did none of these things. Instead his eyes fell shut and he let Sam's hand stay where it was against his feverish skin.

"Not doing so good," Dean admitted, and his arms enfolded around his stomach. His eyes opened, hazel darkened with distress, and stared up at Sam through thick lashes. Though rarely witnessed in his brother, Sam unmistakably saw fear glossing Dean's eyes.

"I can feel it crawlin'," Dean whispered, "all up inside."

"I'm gonna get you to that doctor, Dean," Sam promised, hand falling to his shoulder. "Just hang on a little while longer. It's going to be okay."

Dean snorted, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "I'm not dying, Sam. I'm just _pregnant_." He laughed then, a desperate kind of edgy chuckle that did nothing to ease the tension.

But Sam wasn't entirely sure that Dean _wasn't_ dying, that as the demon grew inside his brother it wasn't killing him at the same time. Sam knew what it was to be possessed, knew how helpless and unbearable it was to have no control over your own body. This was a different kind of possession, where Dean's mind was whole, but his body was no longer his own.

He got back behind the wheel and continued to drive. As they rolled along this forsaken stretch of roadway in Montana backwoods, Sam felt like he and Dean were completely alone. Risk comes with the job and it wasn't the first time that Dean's life laid entirely in Sam's hands, but watching Dean deteriorate, knowing that a demon lay maturing inside him, brought a kind of dread that turned Sam's stomach to stone, made him lean forward in the seat, as if that would propel the car faster, make the miles to travel shorter and would deliver Dean to _someone who knows what to do._

Glancing over at his fitfully slumbering brother, Sam fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed Bobby's number.

"What about an exorcism?" Sam asked as soon as Bobby answered. "A banishing spell or some kind of incantation?"

There was a slight pause on the other end that Sam recognized to be the hesitation before bad news. _Magic that dark is dangerous, Sam._

"If it saves him, I don't care how dark it is," Sam said. He studied Dean's face before turning his eyes back to the dark road, and whispered, "I don't think he's going to make it to Winnett."

_If he's as bad off as that, then he won't survive an exorcism or any kind of black magic._

A lump formed in Sam's throat and he swallowed compulsively. "Isn't there anything I can do?"

_You're already doing it. You're getting him to that doctor._

Slumped over in the passenger's seat, Dean bit back another moan.

"I'll call you when we get there," Sam replied, ending the call with a quick press of a button. "Dean," Sam said, dividing his attention between the road and his brother. "Do you need me to stop?"

"No." And he winced again. "The little fucker's making itself right at home," Dean said. "Just drive, Sam."

It was all Sam could do. He stole another glance at his brother, who was barely visible in the lowlight of the evening, the planes of his face lit with the barest touch of moonlight.

"Try to sleep," Sam said, pressing the accelerator to the floor, "if you can."

Dean tried, falling in and out of consciousness, his head lolling against the windowpane, but more than once a pained groan escaped his lips as he jolted awake. He trembled, muscles involuntarily contracting and cramping, body yielding to the parasitic demon within. Sweat beaded across his forehead, his skin running hot and cold.

The drive was awful and torturous and not just for Dean. Trapped in the small space of the Impala, watching and hearing Dean's pain intensify while Sam sat a mere foot away, able to do _naught_, rent Sam in two. He could do nothing more for Dean than drive the car and offer whatever comfort his physical presence afforded his brother.

The plain truth was that Sam was scared out of his mind.

Though Sam was blatantly disregarding the speed limit, they were not making good time. Frequent stops along the way were made for Dean to be sick, even when there was nothing left to up-heave.

Amazing and horrifying at the same time, Dean's stomach grew, distending shockingly fast in the mere six hour drive. Sam could only guess that the demon was magically reforming to the stage it had been before the rakshasi had died for he had never heard of any creature gestating so quickly. Dean looked nearly full term by the time they arrived at an isolated ranch in Winnett, which rested twelve miles off the lonely main road.

o0o00O00o0o

Winnett was plain and dry, nothing but miles and miles of rolling prairie and open fields swept with sun-bleached grass and undergrowth. The town center was comprised of a few office buildings, a dive bar and an antiquated motel. As they left the center, the populace dropped off steeply. Abandoned houses and neglected grain towers dotted the county; they were as abundant as the lived in properties.

It was just after six a.m. when the Impala rolled to a stop in front of the doctor's home. Sam took the keys out of the ignition, sparing a glance at his brother and then another up at the house.

"We're here," Sam said quietly, resting a hand on Dean's leg. "I'll be back in a minute. Just hang tight."

Pale and trembling, Dean opened his eyes and squinted out the window, nodding his understanding.

Sam approached the house with nervous apprehension. This was it— if this guy couldn't or worse _wouldn't_ help them, then he didn't know what they were going to do. There was no plan B. Even if there were, Dean wouldn't make it that far.

The property was large, an expanse of grass so dry and parched that Sam feared walking across it might start a brushfire.

There were rusted machine parts and ancient tractors sleeping in the front lawn, corroded skeletons from a more prosperous time. A felled wood beam fence, grayed and split, decayed leisurely amid the lithe golden grass.

The driveway had been gravel once, but was now mostly dirt. Tire tracks impressed into the dirt looked fresh, giving Sam hope that the rusty pickup parked further up the drive had been occupied recently, that its driver was inside the house. The house itself was a single story ranch with a wrap around porch, its weathered exterior not but a wind's breath from dust.

Sam thought that his foot might go clear through the wooden husk of a front step, but he was saved from finding out when the screen door swung open and a man stepped out onto the porch. His hair was a white tuft of waves, an overgrown crew cut with locks curling every which way. He wore a plaid shirt tucked into his jeans with a standard issue black belt. He looked like a man who did not waste time or words.

Jim Martin wasn't as tall as Sam, but he was an imposing figure nonetheless. Sharp blue eyes cut right through Sam as keenly as any surgical tool. The doctor's gaze whittled him down, stripping away any pretense, and Sam let everything show, allowed the man to see that he was no more a threat to him than any other worried person who came to his door seeking aid.

"Can I help you?" he asked Sam. His face was serious, his wrinkled skin a weathered tan that suggested long hours spent outdoors, but his blue eyes warmed a bit from their initial inspection and eased Sam's worry.

"Dr. Martin?" Sam asked.

"Yes, that's right," he replied.

"My name's Sam Winchester— a friend told me you might be able to help us," and he looked back to the car where Dean sat in the passenger's seat. "That's my brother, Dean. He was— _hurt_ on a hunting trip."

"I'll see what I can do— bring him in," the doctor said as he gestured back towards the door.

But Sam didn't move. "Dr. Martin, we're not animal hunters." He fixed the doctor with a meaningful stare. "We hunt _other_ things— things that might seem unbelievable. My friend said you have had experience with our kind of hunter before."

The doctor straightened, face turned weary with understanding. His eyes strayed from Sam to Dean leaning back in the Impala. "What exactly were you hunting?"

"We were tracking a pair of rakshasas," Sam said. "They're a kind of demon— and well, you'd better come see for yourself."

Sam turned, walking back towards the car, the doctor following behind him. Dean looked up through the window as the pair approached him, his face pale and sweating, but with determination set sharply in his eyes. Sam opened the passenger side door and the doctor sucked in his breath when he saw Dean's distended, clearly pregnant stomach.

The doctor looked from Dean to Sam, as if expecting this to be some sort of crazy prank, but the somber look of gravity on the younger Winchester's face told him that this was no joke.

"May I take a look, son?" he asked, stooping to Dean's eye level.

Dean nodded, allowing the doctor to lift his shirt and expose his swollen belly. He pressed firmly against his abdomen, and Dean bit back a groan.

"How long have you been—." He gestured to his stomach. "—like _this_?"

"For a few hours, sir," Dean said.

"A few _hours_?" the doctor said, amazement in his voice.

"The female, the rakshasi, was pregnant," Sam said. "And she somehow implanted her baby in Dean before she died. We've never heard of anything like this, but at the rate it's growing—."

"I'd say it's nearly ready to be born," the doctor said. "It really _can't_ be born, can it?" he said slowly.

"It'll just— _tear_— out of him," Sam whispered. "Doctor Martin," he began, his dark eyes imploring. "Can you help us?"

"Call me Jim," he said. He turned towards Dean, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get you into the house and I'll see what I can do."

o0o00O00o0o

Unable to keep still, Sam paced in Jim's family room, glancing at the closed kitchen door every few minutes. He was careful not to will for the door to open, as Sam knew that he just might be able to make such a thing happen.

The doctor had wanted to examine Dean privately and though Sam had readily agreed to give his brother some privacy and stay in the family room, the waiting was making him crazy. What was taking so long anyway?

Sam sat down on the edge of an armchair, considering all that had happened in the span of a few hours: a hunt gone bad, an impregnated brother, a torturous drive and now an undaunted doctor.

So far, Doctor Jim Martin was taking the entire situation in stride. He accepted Sam and Dean's story with little questioning and had not once seemed reluctant to help them with this unusual problem.

_How many hunters have come to his door before us?_ Sam had thought as he observed the doctor's gentle and nonjudgmental treatment of his brother. _None of this seems to faze him._

Jumping up from his perch, Sam took to pacing the room again. He was exhausted but he just couldn't make himself sit still. Another quick look at the mantle clock showed that nearly thirty minutes had passed. Sam raked a hand through his hair and sighed.

Half expecting the inside of the ranch house to be a match for it's weathered exterior, Sam was pleasantly surprised by the neat and kept interior. Wooden-plank walls inset with broad windows and hardwood floors accented by worn throw rugs created comfortable warmth within. The place was remarkably free of clutter: no knickknacks collecting dust on end tables, no haphazard stack of magazines beside the couch, nothing extraneous anywhere.

Sam leaned against the stone fireplace and examined a set of framed five-by-sevens. The first one showed a young Jim in a black cap and gown with a red sash thrown over his shoulder. He couldn't have been older than Dean. His smile was wide and carefree, blue eyes twinkling even through the years of ware on the picture.

_Probably his graduation from Medical School,_ Sam thought as he fingered the layer of dust on the picture frame.

The second picture in the row was of a woman in a brown, polka-dot dress smiling shyly at the camera. It was such a true and sweet moment captured on film that Sam found himself smiling with her.

_His wife,_ Sam thought suddenly.

The last framed photo was another of Jim, but this time he wore an army dress suit and he was crouched low with his arms around a little girl in a flower print sundress. The girl smiled happily at the camera, but Jim's smile was tempered, more world-weary than the grin he wore in the previous picture.

Sam recalled what Bobby had told him over the phone, that Jim Martin had served a tour of duty in Vietnam.

The door to the kitchen squeaked softly on its hinges and Sam turned at the sound. As Jim exited the kitchen, Sam could see Dean leaning wearily in a chair before the door swung closed behind the retired surgeon with a gentle click.

Sam was nervous, but he played it light. "So what's the prognosis, doc?"

"There are only two ways it's coming out," the doctor said. "I take it out or it comes out on its own."

Sam frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "But I thought it couldn't—."

"It can't," he said quickly. "If it does it will rip through his body, most likely destroying several vital organs. Dean will die if that happens."

The finality of the words sucked the air from the room. Sam blinked, trying to clear his head. "So it's surgery then," Sam said. "What are our options?"

The doctor sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, taking a moment to choose his words before he explained. "Not too many folks live this way, but people understand the risk. I service several ranches in this area— routine check ups, broken bones, stitches, viruses," he said. "I handle most emergencies that happen around here, get the patient stable if it's too serious to handle out here. Anything more complicated than I'm equipped to deal with requires a visit to the nearest hospital. It's more than half a day's trip from here. He'll never make it."

"Can you help my brother or not?" Sam asked plainly. "If you can't I've got to try to get him to that hospital."

"And what would you tell them? My _brother_ is _pregnant_ with a _demon_?" the doctor asked, not unkindly, merely pointing out the flaw in that plan. "I'm probably the best chance he's got," Jim said quietly. It wasn't arrogance; it was the boldfaced truth. "At the rate it's growing, it needs to come out as soon as possible."

"How soon?"

"_Immediately_— this afternoon," the doctor said. "I've discussed this with Dean. Your brother is weakening with every minute that passes. That thing is ravaging his body like a parasite— I can't tell from external examination how entwined it's become with his body's systems, but if it's anything like human pregnancy at this visible stage then we have to act fast."

Sam nodded, looking down at the floor.

"He understands that an emergency cesarean is his only real chance at surviving this," Jim said.

"Can you do it?" Sam asked. "Is it possible?"

"Yes," Jim said simply. "You should know that it's been a while since I've done major surgery. I could lose my license for doing this," Jim said. Then he smiled wryly and added, "But it's not the first time I've done something the law says I shouldn't in the best interest of the patient."

Sam nodded again. He had expected this, had known that the only way a doctor could help Dean would be to cut him open, but knowing what was to come didn't make the reality of it any less daunting.

"We'll move him to my clinic," the doctor continued. "He'll have a better chance of surviving a c-section there."

Sam looked up sharply. "You sound like he's not going to make it."

"I'm not going to lie to you, Sam. This doesn't look good. I don't know what I'll find when I open him up. You have to accept the possibility that it might be too late already. The clinic is better than nothing, but he still won't have the benefit of general anesthesia and a staff of nurses. It'll just be me and you, we'll be all he has— his only chance to get through this."

"Wait— you want to perform major surgery _without_ a general?" Sam asked, eyes wide.

"I don't want to, but I don't have much choice," he said. "I don't have that kind of anesthesia here. From everything I've observed about this demon, your brother will be dead before morning if we don't act now."

"Isn't there anything you can give him? I can't let you just—."

"I can offer him lidocain to numb the area for the incision and possibly morphine for the pain, but I'm wary of administering morphine during the procedure without someone to watch his breathing."

"I'll do it," Sam said immediately. "I'll do whatever I have to."

The doctor studied Sam for a moment then said, "You may have to do more than that—you may have to get your hands dirty. Will you be able to be in the operating room? Assist me if I need it?"

Sam looked the doctor straight in the eyes and repeated, "I'll do whatever I have to."

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

Um, I have no idea where this came from (well, I have _some_ idea, which I will tell you in the last chapter). I'm projecting that this will run between three and five chapters. Most of the story is written already.

So… what do you guys think?

I am also posting this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way.

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "Everybody Loves a Clown" and "Born Under a Bad Sign"

Summary: Dean's physical and emotional boundaries are broken. Sam does his best to hold everything together.

Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean, but very "smarmy"

Rating: R for language, horrific imagery and graphic descriptions

Warnings: MAJOR Crack!fic (well, I think it is anyway), hurt!Dean, mpreg, demons, horror, graphic descriptions— think ER on SPN!crack. This story, while mpreg, is not Wincest or slash. Some might consider this to be "pre-wincest" as the brothers have a very close relationship. Read at your own discretion.

A/N: Please read the warnings! Credit must go to Pinetranio, who was the test audience for this fic. Thank you!

o0o00O00o0o

_Eviscerated_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

_Everything was wrong and Sam didn't know how to fix it. Dean bled and bled and bled and Sam floundered around him, sliding this way and that, trying to gain purchase. _

_His brother was there in the room with him but he was no longer present. The person Sam knew and loved was gone, never having made it off of the operating table. _

_Sam had been fooling himself thinking Dean ever had. _

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Two

"Let me explain what I'm going to do," Jim said as he flipped through a pair of books on the desktop.

Sam, Dean and Jim had migrated to Jim's office, which was a small room off of the kitchen. This room was lived-in with much of the human chaos Sam noticed was missing from the family room. Two tall bookshelves lined the wall between the windows, jam-packed from top to bottom with all kinds of books; stacks of newspapers weighted down by coffee cups leaned lazily against the side of Jim's desk, which was papered with bills and invoices and handwritten notes; a rotary style phone sloped over a stack of manila file folders, just asking to slip off the desk with a melodious clatter.

Though still pale and discomforted, Dean was doing a bit better now that he was out of a moving car and sitting at rest in a chair pulled up in front of Jim's desk. The nausea seemed to be at bay for now and aside from his engorged stomach, Dean looked nearly like himself after a long and tiring hunt. Sam sat beside him and did his best not to shoot worried glances at Dean every six seconds.

Jim stood behind his desk with two open books and he turned them around to face Sam and Dean. One book showed a diagram of a pregnant woman, a side view showing where the baby takes up residence in her body. The other book had a diagram of the male body, showing layers of muscle and bone.

Tapping the male diagram, Jim explained that the demon must be growing in Dean's abdominal cavity for lack of a uterus and he emphasized this by pushing the books towards Dean.

"I don't know what to expect," the doctor said, "I've never done a c-section on a man before."

"But you have done them?" Dean asked calmly. Sam studied his brother's profile, seeing the worry beneath the composed exterior.

"Yes," Jim said. "Though it's not my area of expertise. You'll be the fourth c-section of my career."

"Well, this one's going off the books," Dean said.

"Don't worry, son," Jim replied with a smile. "No one would believe me anyway." His face became more serious. "I'm going to prepare you for surgery the same way I would any other cesarean case."

Dean nodded, though he visibly tensed in his chair as he looked over the medical books laid out before him.

"I'm going to make an incision here," Jim said, moving the eraser end of a pencil over the male diagram low across the stomach just below the hipbones. "I'll separate the abdominal muscles, and the inner lining of the abdominal cavity and hopefully extract the demon there."

"That's more than I need to know," Dean said quietly. Sam was torn between wanting to know _everything_ that was going to be done to his brother and wanting to know _nothing_ about it.

"You must understand that there is a fair amount of risk involved," Jim said. "There could be any number of complications."

"What kind of complications?" Sam asked, brows drawn together with worry.

Jim sighed, leaning back in his chair. "For one, I have no idea how demon pregnancy works, let alone demon pregnancy in a human man. It could be more complex to extricate than a human baby would be. I just don't know."

He paused, eyes sighting the floor as he worked up the nerve to say something else. "If it is more complicated," Jim said quietly, "it may already be too late to get it out."

Shaking his head, denial on his lips, Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Dean was more accepting than he. "I understand, Doc," Dean said. "What else?"

"Like with any surgery there is a risk of infection or increased blood loss and possibly organ damage," Jim said. "But I'm going to take good care of you so these risks are minimal."

"What about after the surgery?" Sam asked, quickly glossing over the notion that Dean might not make it to post-op. "What kind of recovery time are we talking about?"

"He'll sew me back up and we'll be on the road in no time," Dean said, glancing at his brother.

"This is major surgery, Dean," Jim explained. "You're going to be out of commission for at least a week and you won't be fully recovered for more than a month. That means, no hunting."

"But I could recover faster, right?" Dean asked. "I'm at the top of my game right now, Doc."

Sam frowned. "Dean, we're not going anywhere until you have Dr. Martin's clearance."

"It's possible you'll make a quick recovery, but I wouldn't count on it," Jim said. "You're going to be laid up for four days at the very least."

"I just want to get this _over_ with," Dean said.

Red flags of warning shot up in Sam's mind— Dean would probably dismiss his recovery time in order to get back to their hunting routine. His brother never saw the value in taking care of himself.

"I understand. The sooner we get this over with the better for everyone." The doctor stood, saying, "I'll need to move you to my clinic in the center of town. There's much to be done before surgery can begin."

o0o00O00o0o

For all that was happening to him, Dean was very self-possessed as Sam helped him from Jim's house to the Impala. He had as much focus as he could spare invested in keeping his composure.

When Dean was younger, his little brother had eagle eyes for him, watching his every move with keen interest. There was a time in their lives when Sam wanted to be _exactly_ like his big brother, wanted to wear the same clothes and play the same games and spend all his time with Dean. Dean learned very quickly that Sam took his cues from him, watched Dean to see how _he_ was supposed to react. If Dean laughed, Sam laughed; if Dean felt bad, Sam did too; if Dean was scared, so was Sam.

Even though Sam was no longer a child, there was still a little part of him that looked to his brother for guidance. And Dean would see to it that Sam would be protected, even from him.

So it was habit alone that allowed Dean to display outward calm while he was terrified on the inside.

He braced himself against the side of the car, running his fingers across the smooth, sun-baked metal. Even his girl couldn't bring a smile to his face, though he tried for Sam's sake. Sam opened the door, guiding Dean inside the Impala with a gentle hand. He didn't immediately join Dean inside the car and through the windshield Dean watched him cross to where the doctor stood beside his truck.

To the casual observer, Sam had a determined manner about him as he talked to Jim, but Dean knew all his looks— years of living in cramped quarters and tense situations betrayed him. Sam was scared too.

_Damn it_, Dean thought. _Not doing my job._

Pain flared across his abdomen and Dean sucked in a breath, pressing his hands to his stomach. When Dean glanced down at his body, he couldn't believe that this was _him_, that the swollen stomach beneath his hands was _his_ stomach, that the weakness causing his legs to tremble was weakness in _him_, in _his_ body.

Sam had had the forethought to give Dean one of his larger shirts, but still it was pulled tight across his stomach. As it was his jeans were rolled over and secured with a makeshift rope-belt.

Dean was more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling, more exhausted than he thought a person could be. He felt as if his boots were plated with lead and he'd been running a marathon underwater. No matter how hard he fought, he just couldn't catch his breath.

The demon was using him the way a car uses a battery. And the little bastard was wreaking havoc on his insides like a gremlin at play in a jet engine. Dean knew it was only a matter of time before he crashed and burned. When the demon was done with him, when it had taken all that his body had to offer, it would dispense with Dean as easily as he would discard a used up battery from the Impala.

Dean didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep it off and wake up from this nightmare in the morning. This wasn't how he imagined going, leaving this world cut open on an operating table.

He took another look at Sam, seeing his jaw clench and his head bow as he listened intently to whatever Jim was telling him. The doctor clapped Sam on the shoulder and turned back to his truck. Sam met Dean's eyes briefly as he walked back to the Impala. A tight smiled crossed his lips, but Sam couldn't hold it and he ducked his head to hide his uneasiness from him.

Misery boiled up in Dean that had nothing to do with the demon. How could Dean leave his brother like this? He determined right there that he would fight this demon as hard as he could with whatever he had left.

o0o00O00o0o

"It was good that Jim explained the details of the procedure," Sam said, hands with a white-knuckle grip around the steering wheel, eyes focused on the bumper of Jim's truck.

"Yeah," Dean replied.

It was a short half hour drive to the clinic, but Sam was going out of his mind with impatience. Much to his brother's dismay, Sam filled the time with chatter.

"You don't have to do this," Sam said quietly, chancing a look at Dean. He was staring out the window watching the lonely landscape roll alongside them.

"Not much of a choice," Dean replied.

It was quiet in the car for nearly a mile. As Sam eased the Impala to a stop sign, he paused and studied Dean's determined profile.

"I won't let him so much as touch you if you don't want him to," Sam said. _You don't have to let him cut you open. _ "You just say the word and we'll find something else." _I'll do whatever you want._

For a fleeting instant, Dean's features contorted, but then a mocking grin slid across his face with practiced ease. "Aw, defending my honor, Sammy? How sweet."

Sam scowled, turning his gaze back to the road. He was shaking his head, gearing up to let loose his frustration. _Typical Dean, _Sam groused, _belittling my sentiment_.

"There's nothing else, Sam," Dean said. "It's this or nothing."

"Okay," Sam said. "I just— I just wanted to make sure—."

"_I get it,"_ Dean growled. Then his voice softened as he said, "I know, Sam." He gave a short sigh and finally set his gaze on his brother.

"You gotta be on your A game, Sammy," Dean said. "When he gets the demon out, who knows what it will do. It could be defenseless or it could go after you and everyone in the room. You gotta be prepared."

"I know that, Dean," Sam said, annoyed. "I've been back in it for quite some time now and have just as much demon experience as you."

"Just— don't let me distract you," Dean said quietly. "Whatever happens, you nail this son of a bitch."

The ire melted right out of Sam. He didn't say anything, just steered the car down the dusty center lane road into town.

Aside from Jim, Sam had yet to see a single resident, not even any passing cars. At one time Winnett boasted thousands of inhabitants, but the town had lost more than a third of its population over ten years, eventually dwindling down to less than two hundred scattered people. It was really more of a truck stop than a town, especially in the off-season.

They parked in the back of the clinic. Though it was Sunday and most businesses were closed, they wanted as little attention as possible. Being the sole doctor for miles, Jim was on call pretty much twenty-four seven, but Sundays he typically spent at home.

The brothers sat for a moment in the Impala, waiting for Jim to open the clinic and wave them in. Dean breathed out a pained breath, eyes pressed shut tightly.

"I think it knows we're about to terminate it," he said, letting out a shaky laugh. "It's goin' crazy." Dean turned his hazel eyes on Sam, a smirk quirking his lips. "Wanna feel? It's wild."

Sam hesitated before sliding over closer to his brother. He looked from Dean's enlarged stomach up to his face. Sam had been careful to avoid touching his stomach since that first moment in the woods. He'd told himself it was because he didn't want to hurt Dean, but in truth he was really freaked out by it.

"It's okay," Dean assured. Something in his hazel eyes implored Sam— there was a need lingering there.

_Maybe…_ Maybe Dean _needed_ Sam to touch him, needed something so simple as human contact to help him cope with what was happening to him. Dean wasn't the kind of guy who believed in that "touchy-feely crap", but Sam knew that a lot of times that was just a macho front.

_He must feel so alienated, _Sam though, suddenly struck with the sad notion. _He needs to not feel alone in this._

Gently, Sam pressed his palm against Dean's stomach. He was surprised at how warm his body felt through the fabric of the shirt. _Like a furnace,_ Sam thought, resisting the urge to once again reach up and feel Dean's forehead for fever.

"You feel it?" Dean asked. Sam shook his head, feeling nothing but warmth beneath his fingers. Dean clasped his hand over Sam's and moved it lower along his stomach, pressing his hand firmly against his distended abdomen. Breath caught in his throat as Sam felt the demon moving within his brother, pushing against his palm more firmly than he expected.

"_Jesus,"_ Sam whispered.

"It's just about done with me," Dean said. "It's coming. Any time now."

o0o00O00o0o

Refusing assistance, Dean grumbled, "I _can_ walk," as he rose from the car, but Sam persisted when the demon decided to amuse itself with Dean's insides, nearly forcing him to his knees despite his mantra of _I'm fine, I'm fine_. Sam took his brother by the arm and ushered him inside the small one floor building. Dean's loathing of the situation was silent but evident.

Though it was built sometime in the eighties, the clinic had been well kept over the years. It consisted of a small waiting room with a reception area that doubled as Jim's office, a kitchen in the back and four exam rooms with a range of medical equipment. The floor was generic white-gray linoleum and the walls were painted sterile white from the kitchen to the waiting room, which had calming sage green and light ochre walls.

Sam was only slightly more assured now that they were at the clinic. Feeling nauseous as he thought about what was in store for his brother, Sam wondered, _How is Dean _not_ freaking out?_ Dean was quiet, not having said more than a few words since getting out of the Impala. Sam swallowed, trying to focus on the present moment. It would do no good to think upon anything else.

They entered the clinic through the back door that led into a kitchen area. Jim explained that at one time he had a few nurses and another physician, but as the town diminished so did the need for a staff that large. An office manager came in on Tuesdays to help with paperwork, a cleaning crew came in on Thursdays, and occasionally another doctor or a nurse would stop by if need demanded it, but otherwise Jim did everything himself.

"Of course, I don't spend all my time at the clinic," Jim said as he flicked on a light switch. "I make routine trips to ranches in the area and at least twice a month I make the trek to the hospital."

Leading them down the corridor where the exam rooms were, Jim continued, "This isn't hunting season and I don't have any more scheduled checkups this month, so we shouldn't be disturbed until Tuesday when Sarah comes in to take care of the books," Jim said. "Unless there's an emergency between now and then."

With a gentle prod at his back, Jim steered Dean into an exam room, but stopped Sam firmly at the door.

"You need rest," Jim said, the fierceness back in his eyes. Sam opened his mouth to object, but Jim cut him off. "You'll be no good to Dean if you are exhausted."

Not liking the doctor's order one bit, Sam protested, "How can I sleep when Dean's—,"

"Both of you haven't slept in over twenty-four hours and I need time to prepare," Jim continued as if Sam had not interrupted. "You lay down on a cot in exam room four while I give Dean an ultrasound. He'll join you as soon as I'm finished taking a look inside."

Jim gestured down the hall indicating exam-four then ducked inside the room where Dean waited, closing the door in Sam's face. The matter was closed for discussion.

Sam frowned, stalking down the hallway to the designated room. Exam room four was a large room lined with half a dozen cots perpendicular to the wall. Sam guessed that the room was set up for blood donation.

Sinking down on the last cot, Sam sighed deeply. Now that Jim had mentioned it he could feel the weight of exhaustion pressing in his skull. He lay back on the cot, thinking he'd never find sleep, but after a few minutes of anxious turning, Sam fell asleep.

When he woke, his brother was passed out on the cot next to him. Dean lay on his back, face turned away from Sam. His breath rose and fell with a gentle, steady cadence.

_God, what a mess,_ Sam thought as he watched his brother sleep. He rubbed at his eyes, still feeling the burn of fatigue.

Quietly, Sam reached for his phone, pressing a button to reveal the time. It was just after noon; by some miracle, Sam had slept over four straight hours. He had no idea when Jim had eventually brought Dean to rest but Sam felt a stab of guilt that he hadn't been awake to help his brother.

Of course, when Sam tried to be quiet, he made more noise than he'd ever made in his entire life— the cot groaned under his weight as Sam shifted to sit up— every button on his cell phone chirped loudly— his footfalls on the linoleum tile seemed to echo and boom. Sam glanced nervously at Dean, knowing his older brother was a light sleeper, a habit born from years of being the only thing between Sam and the bad things in the world.

But Dean slept on, pure exhaustion knocking him out cold. Sam crept from the darkened room, going back down the short corridor, cutting quickly through the kitchen and into the parking lot. He leaned against the door for a moment, wishing he would wake from this nightmare, then sat down on the back steps. He took out his phone, dialing Bobby's number again.

"How much do you know about this guy?" Sam asked him by way of a greeting. "I'm not letting just anyone cut open my brother."

_Don't see as you have much choice_, Bobby pointed out. _I've never met him myself, but he's saved a few hunters in his day. How does he seem to you?_

"He seems too good to be true," Sam admitted. "He could get in serious trouble for doing this. I don't know why he's risking so much for us."

_You and Dean don't have the market cornered on risking for others_.

Sam's lips quirked up as he thought, _Sure feels like it sometimes._ Sam sighed into the phone. "Dean could die," he said quietly, abruptly. He hadn't meant to say it, but once he did a whole slew of accompanying thoughts came to the surface. "The doctor said it could be too late already."

Bobby didn't say anything— he knew when he was meant to listen. There was nothing he could have said to change that possibility or assuage Sam's fears.

"We won't know until the doctor has him… open," Sam said. "I just have to be prepared for anything."

_That's all you can do,_ Bobby replied. _If you need anything, Sam, you let me know._

Sam smiled into the phone. "Thanks Bobby," he said, hoping that he wouldn't need to take him up on his offer.

o0o00O00o0o

As Jim readied himself and the clinic for surgery, Sam went out to the Impala to make some preparations of his own. Even though Sam had scoffed at Dean on their way to the clinic when he had lectured him about staying focused, in truth Sam's thoughts were solely devoted to keeping his brother alive. He'd not given much thought to the Rakshasa itself or what to do with it once it was _out_.

Sam gathered materials from the Impala's trunk— the entire store of holy water, the Lesser Key of Solomon, a gun and a supply of blessed bullets. Rummaging through the trunk, Sam located a large plastic bucket that at one time held rock salt. Sam pulled the cover off and turned it over. With a black sharpie, he began copying a Devil's Trap onto the lid.

He would kill this demon, would send it back to hell before it could hurt anyone else. Fierce raged churned up inside him. Should Dean die, Sam would make this creature suffer greater pain than an eternity spent in hell. There wasn't much he could do for Dean, but Sam could do this.

It took nearly an hour, but Sam had drawn a near perfect replica of a Devil's Trap on the lid. He collected all the items he'd gathered from the trunk, placed them in his backpack and headed back towards the clinic.

Sam set his pack down on an empty cot in exam four. Looking over at Dean, he noticed that his brother had moved in his sleep during the short time he'd been gone, falling into a fitful slumber. Sweat trickled down Dean's brow. His breathing was no longer an even rhythm.

Sam sat on the edge of his cot, watching over him, a thrill of anguish twisting his gut. He could barely stand it. Sam wasn't meant for this— the demon had disrupted the natural order of things— Sure, Sam always worried for his brother's safety but he rarely had to _worry_ about it. Dean was strong and smart and a smartass but reliable and always there for Sam with whatever he needed. But Dean was failing now— his body was failing him and it was heartbreaking to watch.

A whimper of pain and Dean turned his head to the other side, jaw clenched unconsciously. Sam turned away, casting his eyes to the floor. He noticed Jim's oblong shadow on the tiles as he leaned in the doorway.

"Why is his temperature so high?" Sam asked him. "He's been running a fever for hours now."

Jim stepped into the room, coming up beside the bed. "I think his body is reacting to the demon as if it were a virus," Jim replied. "As far as I know human antibodies will not kill demons. His body won't win the battle. It's just going to get worse. I've got to start prepping him now."

Sam looked up from Dean to Jim, lips pursed to speak, but words held in check.

"I know you're putting an awful lot of trust in me," Jim said quietly. "You want to know why I'm helping you."

Sam studied the doctor, waiting. This was exactly what Sam wanted to know.

"A man named Aidan Hale," Jim began, "is the reason you and your brother were sent to me."

"Aidan Hale?" Sam asked, trying to pinpoint the name in his memory. "I don't think I know him."

Jim nodded, expecting this. "People just don't come to Winnett. You're either born here or else you marry someone who lives here, so strangers stick out. Winnett sees all kinds of hunters, though mostly they hunt elk. Aidan Hale showed up on my doorstep in July of seventy-eight. It was suspect enough that he showed up for hunting season four months too soon, but the claw marks across his chest were more than enough to make me dubious of him."

"He was a hunter," Sam guessed. "A hunter like me and Dean."

"Came to my house, just like you did, asking me for medical help. I helped him of course, but I knew he was lying when he told me a bear had caused the damage. I didn't know what he was into, but I knew it couldn't have been good. I was going to call the sheriff on him."

"Why didn't you?" Sam asked.

Jim folded his arms across his chest, the first closed off gesture Sam had witnessed from him. _It's not a good memory,_ Sam thought.

"Molly was playing outside in the backyard— Molly's my little girl— she was trying to catch fireflies in a jar." Jim paused, shaking his head. "I remember that she screamed with such absolute _terror_— a sound no parent ever wants to hear. Hale jumped right off the table as if he didn't have deep gashes across his chest and pushed me out of the way."

Sam could guess where the story was headed and listened sympathetically as Jim recounted one of the most horrific nights of his life.

"It was some sort of wolf _thing_ about to strike my girl. I knew I wouldn't get there in time— _I knew she was dead_— but then Hale charged in, no fear, going at the thing without a moment's hesitation."

It was clear to Sam that even after nearly thirty years the memory was still difficult for Jim to face. "I have no doubt in my mind that Molly would have been killed had he not been there," he said quietly.

"It was a werewolf," Sam said.

Jim nodded. "Hale killed it, but was fatally wounded. I tried so hard to save him but there was nothing I could do. Hale knew this and told me what he did for a living— what he hunted— and I thought he had to be raving from the pain and delirium. I went outside and saw that where the carcass of the wolf had been, a human body lay instead.

"He told me everything he could to explain who he was and how he came to be, leaving me his legacy. He died an hour later.

"I didn't know what to think. Life returned to normal, only it can never really be _normal _after something like that. Every time I looked at Molly I thought how easily she could have been taken from me had Hale not intervened. There were things out there that I didn't know about— that I didn't want to know about but I couldn't ignore.

"Two months later, a friend of Hale's turned up. Wanted to know what had happened. I told him everything. I gave him my name and told him to pass it along to any hunter that needed my services."

"So you've been patching up hunters ever since?" Sam asked.

"It's the least I can do. Because of people like Hale— like you and like Dean— others may live. Molly would have died. She'd have never grown up and gotten married or had children. If I can't help you, then I can't help anyone," Jim said. "You want to know why I am helping you. If not you then who?"

"I don't know how to repay you," Sam said.

"You've already paid, Sam," Jim said. "But don't thank me yet— the hardest part is yet to come. It's time to get started."

o0o00O00o0o

In the first room next to the kitchen, Dean sat on the exam table, which had been moved to the center of the room. He wore a white johnny lose over his front, untied in the back.

Steeling himself, Sam entered exam-one, which would serve as the operating room and stood before Dean, dressed in green scrubs, eyes dark with worry. He dropped the backpack filled with supplies onto the floor.

"Don't you look the part of young medical student," Dean said, nodding to the clothes. He looked down at himself and said, "I look like expectant mother number five."

Sam smiled tightly. "Let me tie that for you," he said, stepping closer to Dean. Sam reached around and tied the top strings behind his back. When he was finished he brought his hands to rest on Dean's shoulders.

He didn't say anything even though he wanted to because he knew Dean wouldn't want to hear it, wouldn't want to hear the words he hadn't said out loud since well before Stanford, a just in case _you know I love you, right?_ Sam would be strong for him because that's really all he could do.

"It's okay, Sam," Dean said, always the big brother, even now trying to protect Sam from his inner anguish. These simple words were his undoing.

Sam's façade of confidence wavered, face crumpling with grief. He smoothed out his features with a tight smile, wanting to say so many things but unable to form a single word.

"I know," Dean said. "Me too."

"You're going to be fine," Sam said, trying to convince himself as much as Dean. A terrible, horrible feeling slashed through his gut. Everything would not go as planned. Squashing the premonition down, Sam said instead, "Jim's gonna have the demon out and patch you back up in no time."

"Good as knew," Dean replied with a small smile. "You got everything?" he asked, glancing down at the backpack on the floor.

Sam nodded, stooping to open the bag. Taking out the holy water, he poured it into the plastic bucket and set it down beside the table. He held out the lid with the Devil's Trap for Dean's inspection.

"Nice," he grinned, turning it over in his hands. "This'll hold it for sure." Sam took the lid from his brother and placed it beside the bucket.

Dressed in blue scrubs, facemask around his neck, Jim came up beside them, reluctant to intrude. "Sam, you should scrub up for the procedure," he said, gesturing to the kitchen. "Dean, I'm ready to get you started."

Sam nodded, dropping his gaze downward. Dean watched Sam exit the small surgery room, disappearing through the doors into the kitchen.

"Hey, Doc," Dean began. "If don't make it off this table, will you tell my brother—." Dean faltered as he tried to put his emotions into words. "Tell him—."

"He knows, Dean," Jim replied, "The same way that you know what he can't say."

"If it doesn't work out, will you look after my brother for little bit? Make sure he doesn't crash-up the car?" Dean said, "He's the guilt-ridden type. We've this friend— Bobby Singer— over in South Dakota. If something happens to me—." Dean paused. "You'll see that Sam gets there, right?"

Jim nodded and said, "Of course I will. Don't worry about that though. I'm going to get you through this."

o0o00O00o0o

Despite knowing what to expect, Sam was not ready to see Dean laid out on the table. It made this whole situation suddenly very real and scary. The surgery lights were on, bright and focused on Dean. There was already and IV line in place and he was hooked up to some sort of monitor.

Dean's engorged stomach was exposed, his hands placed over in an attempt to soothe the pain. He was naked under the johnny that was hitched up over his stomach, but the doctor had a sheet draped over him for privacy until the surgery.

As Sam crossed the room, Jim stopped him before he reached the operating table. "His blood pressure is too high," the doctor said softly. "Try to calm him down if you can."

Sam nodded and proceeded to his brother's side. "Hey," he said. "Jim's almost ready to start."

Dean closed his eyes and nodded. No longer with a quip on his lips, his whole demeanor had changed from a few moments ago. Being laid out on the operating table made the situation suddenly very real and scary for Dean especially.

"Are you ready for this?" Sam asked him. _Stupid question,_ Sam berated himself immediately. It _was_ a stupid question, but Sam didn't know what else to say.

"As I'll ever be," Dean replied, then his face scrunched in pain, hands moving slowly over his stomach. "_Goddamnit_," he hissed.

Placing a hand on Dean's stomach, Sam felt his body shaking. He could see Dean struggling to will the discomfort away. Shifting his own hands away, Dean let Sam's remain for a moment longer before saying, "Feeling me up while I'm down and out? I'll remember this, Sammy."

Sam grinned, but didn't remove his hand. His brother was still trembling, and Sam wasn't entirely sure it was from pain alone. "It'll be over soon," Sam said. "I'm going to be with you the whole time."

"Great, just what I need— an onlooker ringside for this freak show," Dean said.

Behind Sam, Jim was double-checking his preparations, silently counting out his instruments and suture trays.

"No place else I'd rather be," Sam said quietly.

"Dean," Jim said, face masked, coming up with a syringe in his gloved hand. "I'm going to administer the morphine now. Sam here is going to watch your breathing."

Earlier, Jim had given Sam a crash course in how to work the oxygen and what signs indicated that his brother wasn't breathing right.

"Great, Doc, load me up," Dean said, "and get this son of a bitch outta me."

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

Wow, thanks for the reviews everybody! I appreciate them very much. Have any questions? Feel free to ask:)

Slight amendment from last time— this fic has grown! Now I'd say it's projected anywhere from six to ten chapters. It's mostly written, I know exactly where the plot goes, and it's just connecting the dots that are left.

I am also posting this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. Friending welcome!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "Everybody Loves a Clown" and "Born Under a Bad Sign"

Summary: Dean's physical and emotional boundaries are broken. Sam does his best to hold everything together.

Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean, but very "smarmy"

Rating: R for language, horrific imagery and graphic descriptions

Warnings: Okay, gang, this is not a cookie-cutter warning. This chapter is particularly gross with somewhat graphic descriptions of a medical procedure. I don't think it's any more explicit than an episode of ER, but everyone reacts to things differently. Use your own judgment.

This story includes: hurt!Dean, mpreg, demons, horror, graphic descriptions. Though mpreg, it's not Wincest or slash. Some might consider this to be "pre-wincest" as the brothers have a very close relationship. _Read at your own discretion. _

A/N: Please read the warnings! Credit must go to Pinetranio, who was the test audience for this fic. Thank you!

o0o00O00o0o

_Eviscerated_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

_It was a slow, agonizing crawl through glass. In some ways it seemed easier just to fall, just to give up. _

_But he remembered that someone loved him once… that that someone might still. He couldn't feel it though, couldn't feel anything through the despair._

_It felt like another lifetime, like a memory from someone else's life that he unfolded from time to time. Someone kept reminding him that it wasn't someone else's life— It was _his_ life and he could get back there again if he dared to try. _

_And so he kept crawling, little by little, trying not to hemorrhage along the way._

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Three

It was quiet in the operating room in the minutes just before. Nothing but small _blips_ from the heart rate monitor and the slight _clink_ of metal instruments being fastidiously counted on the tray filled the room.

Not unlike the moment before a hunt, Sam felt a little thrill of anticipation shoot through him. This was somehow worse, going in with both eyes open, knowing exactly what was to come instead of running high on adrenaline and skill and luck, rolling with whatever came at him. It gave him time to think about and fear the outcome.

Dean was quiet, his eyes closed though he was not asleep, but for a moment Sam pretended that he was merely sleeping, blurring his eyes so that Dean was an unfocused shape before him without any wires or IV lines or hospital gown.

No matter what he did, Sam could not shake the bad feeling he had about this. _Jim's a well trained medical professional and we're in a sterilized clinic with many medical technologies at our disposal_, Sam reasoned silently. _We've been in worse circumstances than this and lived to tell the tale._

Still— Sam's precognitive abilities made him wonder if this feeling souring his gut was indeed a premonition or just plain old-fashioned anxiety.

With a small gesture, Jim beckoned Sam towards him. The doctor's serious demeanor had returned, his eyes a steely blue.

"I'll be right back," Sam said to Dean, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Dean opened his eyes and nodded, but remained silent.

Brief and right to the point, Jim gave him simple and clear instructions. "Sit facing him beside the table. Do whatever you can for him. Don't let Dean see what I'm doing— distract him if you can. And don't you turn around either."

Sam nodded. He didn't want to see his brother's insides splayed out on the table beside him.

"I'll tell you directly if I need your help," Jim said. "But you must do what I ask without question. Hesitation could cost Dean his life." He glanced from Sam to Dean a slight frown on his face. "I'm not sure what to _do_ with _it_ once it's extricated."

"When you get it out," Sam said, looking pointedly at the basin of holy water on the floor, "drown it."

Jim looked up at Sam, startled by his quiet spitefulness and nodded grimly. Sam had to trust that Jim could at least handle the demon until he'd gotten it out of Dean. There was no way to know if the rakshasa would come out defenseless or with claws bared, but Sam was prepared for both.

"It'll probably smoke," Sam warned. "It might even try to fight you, but don't let it distract you from Dean. I'll take care of it, you work on my brother."

With that they both turned towards the table. This was it. There was no turning back now.

o0o00O00o0o

As per Jim's instructions, Sam pulled a stool up beside the table, his bag of supplies at his feet. Dean did not look at him as he sat down, instead keeping his gaze focused on the ceiling.

Jim scrubbed Dean's abdomen with antiseptic solution, and placed blue, sterile sheets over his belly. One of the sheets was then elevated to create a screen to block Dean's view of the procedure. "I'm injecting your abdomen with lidocain," Jim said.

Sam saw his jaw clench, but otherwise there was no reaction from his brother.

The doctor checked Dean's vitals, noting that they were strong, as he waited for the anesthetic to take effect. Prodding Dean's stomach with a needle, Jim asked if he could feel the prick.

"Not really," Dean said, stare still focused straight up.

Jim frowned. "How do you feel?"

"Tired," Dean replied, "but not out of it or anything."

Jim added another dose of morphine to the IV. "This should do it," he said, disappearing around the sheet divider. "You should be feeling pretty good right about now."

Staring down at his brother, Sam was suddenly struck by how small he looked lying there on the table. Despite his brave front, Dean was nervous, hands fisting and unfisting restlessly at his sides.

"Remember that time in Madison when I was seven and I was convinced that there was a demon in our toaster?" Sam said, wanting to draw Dean's attention— and his own—away from the present situation.

Dean acquiesced a little smile and said, "You were so insistent— didn't matter I told you to forget it— had to figure it out for yourself."

Sam beamed, continuing the story, "Doused the thing with holy water and blew the fuse for the entire building..."

As he spoke, Sam was keenly aware of Jim working just behind his turned back, but he couldn't allow himself even the smallest glance. He didn't want to know what Jim was doing to his brother.

But his other senses betrayed him. The scent of singed flesh filled the small room— Jim had cauterized the edges of the incision he'd made. And they could both hear the sounds of the doctor operating on Dean. Sam schooled his features, refusing to show his dread to his brother.

He kept talking, filling the present with stories from their past. Dean's brows drew together suddenly, his eyes pressing shut. He shuddered a breath, trying to keep back a grunt of pain.

"Dean?" Sam asked. "You're not feeling that are you?" But his question was answered when Dean gasped, his face screwed up, fingers curling for some sort of leverage against the table.

Clasping his hand with a firm grip, Sam gave Dean something to hold on to. Sam twisted around and caught Jim's eye over the blue divider. He looked just as confused as Sam did.

While the lidocain had numbed the surface layers of skin tissue, the morphine seemed to be only mildly effective now that the doctor was working deeper.

Sam leaned over Dean, a hand tightly entwined in his, the other rubbing gently at his shoulder. Dean clenched his jaw, and had an iron grip on Sam's hand. His breath came in shaky gasps. Sweat trickled down his forehead and Sam palmed it away.

"Oh, God," Dean breathed, a helpless whimper escaping his lips.

"I thought you gave him morphine?" Sam growled over his shoulder. Seeing Dean suffer made his stomach turn and his heart hurt in violent sympathy. He wanted nothing more than to make his brother stop hurting, to reach down and take this agony away, smooth away the lines of pain deeply etched in his face.

"I've given him as much morphine as I safely can," Jim said, eyebrows drawn together. "He just shouldn't be in this much pain." Then his eyes widened in realization, looking from Dean to his swollen stomach. "Oh, God, it's the demon— it must be like a parasite— it's leeching everything from him, anything in his blood stream."

Helpless frustration stung Sam's eyes as he whispered soothing words in his brother's ear. "Hold on, Dean. You can do it. Just hold onto me." Sam couldn't imagine the torture this was for Dean.

"Some of it _must_ be circulating through," Jim said. "The demon can't be taking all the morphine or Dean wouldn't be able to stand it."

"Give him more," Sam demanded. "You can't do this to him— it's torture."

"Sam, it's unsafe—."

"_Do _something_ goddamnit!"_ Sam shouted.

Jim raised a gloved hand, blood glistening on his fingers. "I don't want to leave him open and unattended," he said. "You'll have to do it." Jim nodded towards the table with the instruments on it. "There's a small glass bottle and a syringe on the tray there. Get them and I'll talk you through it."

Sam swallowed but moved to comply. "Dean," Sam began, untangling his fingers from Dean's but then catching his hand in a firm grip. "I'll be right—."

"Got ears," Dean grunted. _"Go."_

Sam gave him a final squeeze before hurrying to the instrument table. He was very careful to keep his gaze on the morphine, not wanting to look past the privacy screen. Under Jim's vigilant watch, Sam filled the syringe, following his instructions to the letter and injected the dosage into the IV bag.

Quickly, he returned to his brother's side, taking up his hand again and wiping away more sweat from his brow.

"Dean, talk to us," Jim said. "That morphine should take effect in a few minutes."

"Gonna be… _sick_," Dean murmured.

"No, you're not," Sam replied, as if he could talk Dean out of it. "Just breathe."

There, of course, was no going back. Jim had no choice but to forge ahead with the procedure, despite the distress Dean was in, for stopping now would certainly mean his death. Sam thought suddenly of battlefield medicine where circumstances allowed amputations and field-surgery to be performed without the benefit of anesthesia.

It was beyond sickening, but Dean could survive it. Sam would help him through it.

Dean moaned through clenched teeth, trying desperately to hold it back. Sam leaned down close, running his fingers through Dean's close-cropped hair. "Yell if you want to. It's only me."

Throat working to suppress a cry, Dean whispered, "M'dizzy," his eyes lazily finding Sam's then rolling shut.

"Hey, man, stay with me," Sam said, gripping his brother's hand tightly.

Sam shot a look over his shoulder at the doctor and instantly wished he hadn't— there was blood splattered across his blue scrubs and his brow was furrowed in intense concentration.

Turning back to Dean, eyebrows drawn together, he asked, "Is the morphine helping at all?"

Dean gave a little nod, saying, "A-a little," and both recognized it for the lie it was. Perhaps it had dulled the pain a little, but it was not enough to erase it completely, not with the demon still attached to Dean's circulatory system.

They heard the doctor gasp— he'd found the demon. "I _see_ it," Jim said. He glanced over the privacy screen and said, "Here we go."

Jim stepped up, his head and shoulders rising above the sheet divider as he put all his weight on Dean's abdomen, attempting to push the demon out.

"_Sam,"_ Dean breathed, voice breaking against the single syllable and Sam's heart broke against it too. With a litany of nonsensical words and gentle touches, Sam struggled to soothe him.

Dean threw his head to the side, choking back a sob as the doctor tugged— they could hear the awful squelching sounds as he pulled out the demon.

"_Oh, Jesus,"_ Dean gasped. _"Oh—_."

"Don't look," Sam said. Leaning over his brother, Sam used his broad shoulders to shield Dean's view, even though he couldn't see over the privacy screen anyway. Gently, he took Dean's face in his hands, and said, "Focus on me."

With a moan, Dean pressed his eyes shut, breathing through gritted teeth, trying his hardest not to cry out. Sam smoothed his hand over his scalp and down the side, cupping his face, his thumb fitting just alongside his jaw.

"Sam," Jim said quickly, "I need that container now."

As Sam reached down and lifted the bucket from the floor, he got his first glimpse of the thing that was killing his brother. The demon was encased in an embryonic-like sac, it's own womb growing around it, bedfellow to Dean's body. It was covered in blood and fluid, moving grotesquely beneath the thin skin, its long, sharp talons protruding out as it struggled.

Appalled, Sam realized that the rakshasa would have ripped through Dean's body with little trouble— Dean would have had no chance of surviving the birth had the demon gotten itself out.

The morphine the rakshasa had stolen from Dean lulled the demon so it did not shriek or fight nearly half as desperately as it could have when the doctor dropped it into the holy water.

It smoked and bubbled instantly, but Sam, ruthless against the thing that had ravaged his brother, slammed down the lid with a devil's trap drawn on it and kicked the bucket away from the operating table. It rolled away, spinning until it hit the wall on the opposite side of the room. The demon's cries were loud but dwindling.

Sam returned to Dean instantly, taking his hands firmly into his own. "It's out, Dean," Sam said, bringing a hand to wipe the sweat from his brother's brow. "That thing is out." But Dean wasn't lucid, his body trembling in shock, breath drawn in ragged gasps.

"Dean?" Sam asked, horror stabbing at his heart.

"_Shit,"_ he heard the doctor say tersely.

"What is it?" Sam asked, turning his ear towards the doctor, but careful not to look.

"The demon's done a bit of damage," he said. "He's bleeding out."

Sam was suddenly aware of the grip slackening between his fingers. "_No_. No, Dean—you hang on good and tight."

"Sammy…," Dean trailed, his eyes falling shut.

"Keep your eyes open," Sam commanded, gripping him tightly. "Dean, stay with me!" But Dean didn't respond as he grayed before him, lying frighteningly still on the exam table.

"Sam, I need you here," the doctor said. _"Now."_

Scrambling around to the operating side of the table, Sam was simply horrified. There, on the table, was a basin containing the bulk of his brother's intestines. Blood spilled gruesomely over the side and onto the floor, slicking the doctor's hands, which were both submerged _into_ his brother. Sam could see _into_ his brother, could see the pink and red layers of tissue—

_God_, this was his brother—

_This is Dean—_ hisDean_— his insides— ohgodohgod—_

"Sam, snap out of it!"

_Oh, Dean, oh please—_

"_God,"_ Sam whispered, feeling nausea rise in his throat. He wanted to be sick, but he couldn't— there was no time for that— _Dean's dying— Get it together, Winchester._

Sam swallowed, closing his eyes tight, forcing his mind to clear. Setting his horror aside— he'd deal with that later— he stepped up beside the doctor, keeping his focus low, not wanting to see any of it, but knowing he had no choice. If Dean could endure this, then so could Sam.

"I need you to have things ready as I need them," the doctor said. "Put on a pair of gloves. Get that clamp on the end there. Have the gauze ready after that."

Sam wanted to look away, but, like watching a ten-car pile up on the highway, found he couldn't turn his eyes from the gruesome sight.

Fumbling into a pair of rubber gloves, he rushed the instrument tray and grabbed "the clamp on the end" and a surgical sponge. Hands shaking, Sam did his best to assist the doctor.

Jim grabbed the sponge, leaving a wake of bloody fingerprints on Sam. "Damn it," Jim growled. "I can't let go." He looked at Sam. "I need you to apply pressure so I can clamp off the bleeding."

Sam nodded, trying to keep his mind blank as took another sponge and stuck his fingers into the incision— _into Dean—_ where Jim currently had his.

"_Damn it,"_ Jim cursed again. "I can't see what I'm doing— See that blood filling up around my fingers?" Of course Sam saw that blood. _That blood_ was Dean's life pooling about Jim's hands. "You've got to keep that back," Jim said.

With forced detachment, Sam watched as red surged around his fingers. Dean's blood felt hot even through the rubber gloves, seeming to burn Sam, searing his hands so that the stain of it would always be on them. Counting backwards from five hundred, he distracted his mind with numbers, repeating them over and over in a desperate effort to keep his sanity.

There was a tense moment that expanded into eternity, where Sam didn't dare speak as Jim worked intently on his brother. It was this moment that could change everything. Jim held not only Dean's life in his hands, but Sam's as well, for Sam could no longer imagine himself without Dean by his side. Sam held his breath and prayed.

"I got it," Jim said finally. "Take your hands away."

Despite his compulsory calm, Sam's painted hands were shaking as he pulled them back.

"Check his pulse and breathing," Jim directed.

Numbly, Sam moved to the other side of the privacy screen, seeing his brother's bloodless, pallid complexion and became suddenly inept, all sense fleeing from his mind. Staring at Dean lying there looking like a corpse, he blinked, trying to remember what to do. His brain was broken. _You can't die— you can't—_ _God, I touched your insides— Dean— don't die—_

"Sam," Jim said calmly. "Tell me what the blood pressure monitor says."

Squinting at the little machine behind the exam table, Sam read, "Eighty over sixty," knowing somewhere in the recesses of his brain that that wasn't good.

"Now check his breathing," Jim instructed. Sam stepped closer and watched for the familiar rise and fall of chest, but wasn't sure he was seeing it. Panic ransacking through his chest, Sam moved closer still, stooping low over Dean and turning his ear towards his mouth. He felt soft breath sweep over his cheek and Sam in turn released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

"He's breathing," Sam confirmed, turning toward the blue divider in time to hear something _splat_ from the other side. Jim had removed something else from his brother.

_Jesus, the afterbirth_, Sam thought, biting his tongue to distract from the queasiness roiling his stomach.

"I need you to do one more thing," Jim said as he worked.

Heart pounding in his ears, Sam nodded, knowing he'd do anything Jim asked, even if it meant crossing to the other side of that divider and once again seeing his brother gutted on the table.

"I need you to attach a saline bag to his IV," Jim said. "I'll tell you what to do."

But he couldn't do it yet— there was blood all over his hands. Quickly, Sam tore off the rubber gloves and whipped them into the trashcan. Then he methodically followed Jim's instructions and attached a new bag of solution to the hookup.

Once again taking up his place beside Dean, Sam felt aged. He couldn't bring himself to touch his brother, not after _everything_. As Jim worked, undoubtedly sewing Dean back up, Sam tried to keep his mind perfectly blank.

_Nothing_ was decidedly better than _something_ because undoubtedly _something_ would remind Sam of Dean and he couldn't handle thinking about him right now. Even counting numbers was no longer a good distraction because it only made him think of how low Dean's blood pressure was from hemorrhaging all over the place— _All over my hands—_

"It's done," Jim said quietly. He came around and assessed Dean's vitals himself before snapping off the bloodied rubber gloves and dropping them in the trash. Sam tracked his movements, watching him go about the room, checking on various machines.

Placing a hand on Sam's shoulder, Jim said, "Help me move him."

Mutely, Sam complied, hunkering low over the bed, sliding his hands under Dean, mindful of his IV line. Together, they moved Dean and it destroyed Sam to take his once strong brother into his arms and lay his now fragile form to a cot.

Sam surveyed him, taking in the scene with a clinical eye. Dean looked massacred. Deep, life-affording red darkened the hospital johnny and stained his pale skin. Sam wondered idly how many pints he had lost and how long it would take for his body to regenerate them.

Lost in thought, Sam nearly jumped when Jim came up beside him. He shoved a pair of clean scrubs into his arms and ushered him into the bathroom with a firm hand at the small of his back. "Go clean up," he said with a small smile. "You'll feel better," and Jim closed the door behind him.

Shell-shocked, Sam stood numbly in the cool, quiet bathroom, not quite understanding what he was meant to do now. He caught sight of himself in the mirror— smothered in Dean's blood and his face so pale he might as well have been the one who nearly bled to death on the operation table. Suddenly his gut twisted and everything wanted to come back up.

He lurched for the toilet, vomiting the meager contents of his stomach. Gripping the side of the bowl, he gagged, tears streaming down his cheeks as his body tried to expel the wretchedness inside him.

Blowing out a steady breath, and then another, Sam went to task, stripping out of the bloodied scrubs and stepping into a clean set. He scrubbed his face and hands in the sink until he couldn't stand the hot water any longer.

Sam should have felt relief, but instead he felt heavy as if his insides had turned to lead. It was over. Dean had been saved… hadn't he? That feeling of foreboding that Sam had felt prior to the operation had not eased now that it was over.

_What's been done to you?_ Sam thought miserably. _What have _I_ done to you?_ He felt as if he'd delivered Dean into the mouths of wolves.

Feeling his edges fraying, Sam couldn't let himself think about what had just happened— what _he_ had _helped_ to happen—

He emerged from the bathroom, bracing himself to reenter the operating room, but he saw that the room was empty— no Dean, no Jim. Blood splattered across the space like the front line of a battlefield. In a way, a battle had been fought there.

"Sam, we're in here," Jim called, his voice coming from exam room four. Sam walked to the room, stopping at the threshold, peering in.

While Sam had been inside the bathroom, Jim had taken the opportunity to clean Dean up, removing the stained johnny and replacing it with a clean blood-free one. He'd washed the blood from his brother's body and places where Sam's touch marked red fingerprints on his skin.

All tangible evidence of the torturous procedure had been removed but the horror still lingered in Sam, he still saw the gruesome wounds when he looked at Dean.

Sinking into a chair beside the bed, Sam watched the rise and fall of Dean's chest. He cleared his throat and asked, "How's he doing?"

"He's okay," Jim said. "Stable."

"What's this?" Sam asked, gesturing to the IV and the new bag hooked up to it.

Jim paused before explaining, "It's more saline. His blood pressure is still low."

Sam straightened in his chair. "Give him mine," he offered. "We have the same type."

Jim smiled sadly. "It doesn't work that way, Sam. I can't just give him blood that's untested, even if you are his brother."

_My blood is unclean, though I doubt any medical test would show it. _Biting his lip, Sam's gaze dropped to the floor. _God knows what demon infected blood would do to him. _He couldn't help Dean anymore; there was nothing else he could do but wait.

"Sam, why don't you get some rest," Jim suggested. "I know I said it before, but you'll be no good to him exhausted."

"I want to be with him," he insisted. "I know I won't sleep."

The doctor nodded. "I'll be cleaning up," he said. "But you should get some rest if you can. Let me know if you need anything."

Jim set up another cot beside Dean and left Sam with simple instructions. "Keep an eye on his temperature," he said, gesturing to the machine. "If his temperature increases any more than a few points, you come and get me." Sam nodded as he sunk into the cot.

"If he wakes up, talk to him, see how he's feeling, and then get me," Jim said. "He'll probably need another dose of morphine."

"Of course," Sam replied.

Jim clapped him on the shoulder. "You did real good, son," he said. "I know it must have been difficult, seeing your brother like that, but you couldn't have done more to save him."

Sam nodded again, swallowing with difficulty. He didn't want to think about it. Jim had not changed and his scrubs still bore witness to the life and death struggle that had taken place in the operating room.

"I'll just be in the next room," he said and left them alone, closing the door behind him on his way out.

Exhaustion pulled at Sam, forming tension in his skull. He lay down next to Dean and tried to rest, but his mind wouldn't stop— he couldn't stop seeing the horrific images of the surgery and he knew Dean wasn't out of the woods yet.

In desperate need of the contact, he wanted to reach across and take Dean's wrist, feel his pulse beat beneath his fingers, but found that he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he curled into himself and watched his brother sleep.

o0o00O00o0o

There was fire alive in his body, burning in a rhythm like a heartbeat. _I've died. I'm in Hell,_ and he wanted to laugh but he was afraid it would come out as a sob. Something skittered on the edge of his peripherals and it took all his concentration to center.

Horror and nausea overwhelmed him— _No way, not doing this now,_ Dean thought, numbly throwing the off switch in his brain.

A shadowy ceiling came into soft view as the world came back to Dean. Through a pall of pain, his eyes focused to see his brother standing grimly over him.

"Hey," Dean rasped, throat parched as the desert. He swallowed thickly. It hurt to speak. _Fuck, it hurts to think._

"Hey," Sam said, his voice pulled tight. His entire presence was dark, like a shroud veiling his being.

Dean narrowed his eyes, straining to see his little brother through it. "…s'it over?" he asked, trying to understand. _Something is storming in that brain of his._

Sam nodded, trying to avoid the hazel eyes that appraised him now. A little more clarity appeared in his mind, and Dean saw how ancient his little brother looked— aged decades in a few hours.

"Sam?" he asked, a tacit uncertainty in the single word.

Sam turned away suddenly, hand pressed to his mouth as he strangled a sob in his throat. The wretched sound stabbed at Dean's heart with spears of ice.

"Sammy…" Dean whispered. A driving force ripped through him— _Sammy needs me—_ but his wrecked body wouldn't obey his command and he couldn't get to his brother. Anger and uselessness reared up in him, but Dean shelved it, his brother's pain more important than his own. _Can't fall apart. Gotta keep my game face._

"C'mere," Dean pleaded and he outstretched his hand, raising it weakly from the cot. "Tell me."

Sam stooped low, taking Dean's hand and pressing it to his chest as he leaned close. "You were spread out all over the table," Sam said, voice trembling, sounding small and frightened, like the little brother of Dean's memories. "You almost died."

"But I didn't," Dean said. "Still here." _God, the kid had to see it,_ Dean thought. _I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry._ No wonder he looked as if he'd aged a hundred years.

"You're not through it yet," Sam said. "Recovery from this isn't going to be easy. You had major surgery here, Dean."

"Gonna be okay?" he asked with a trace of worry. _Feel like I'm dying._

"You're gonna be fine," Sam replied quickly, then a little smile quirked his lips. "But you can't give birth to anymore babies."

Dean breathed a chuckle, scowling in pain as the slight exertion of it sent lightning bolts torching through his gut.

"Don't plan on it," Dean said with a ghost of a smile. "S'your turn next anyway."

"We'll adopt," Sam replied, forcing a smile at his little joke.

Searching Sam's face, Dean saw a portrait of grief and guilt and he couldn't understand why.

As if reading his thoughts, Sam asked, "You remember what happened?"

_Every excruciating detail_, Dean thought. "Some of it," he replied. "Don't remember the demon coming out."

Sam nodded as if that was to be expected.

"So what did happen, Sammy?" Dean asked.

Sam froze, eyes filling with horror. "Let's not talk about it now," he said. "You feeling okay, man?"

Even as decimated as he was, Dean knew question-dodging when he heard it. "Drugs are wearing off," Dean said.

Alarmed, Sam jumped to his feet, a mixture of anger and fear rushing his steps. "Why didn't you say something sooner? I'll get Jim." And he hurried out before Dean could say another word.

When thinking back on it later, Dean would never be able to say exactly what or how it had happened, only that it had been overwhelming from the first.

As Sam left, horror descended upon Dean like a bird of prey swooping after a field mouse, sudden, unexpected and deadly. A tidal wave of emotion blindsided him, so staggering and startling that he lay there awestruck that he could even feel sentiment that deep, that _distraught_—

_Oh, _God_— Oh, God—_

It was as if that wall he'd constructed between himself and everything else had snapped inside of him and all the things he couldn't deal with were spilling out, despair seeping through his veins in place of blood.

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

So… everybody still here? I hope so!

Thanks very much for the reviews-- I love hearing from you! Keep them coming please:) I'm in grad school now and I will try for regular updates. Who else can't wait for season 3 to start? raises hand (Even though I know my other fic ideas will get Kripke'd before I have a chance to write them!)

I am also posting this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. Friending welcome!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is  Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "Everybody Loves a Clown" and "Born Under a Bad Sign"

Summary: Dean's physical and emotional boundaries are broken. Sam does his best to hold everything together.

Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean, but very "smarmy"

Rating: R for language, horrific imagery and graphic descriptions

Warnings: MAJOR Crack!fic (well, I think it is anyway), hurt!Dean, mpreg, demons, horror, graphic descriptions— think ER on SPN!crack. This story, while mpreg, is not Wincest or slash. Some might consider this to be "pre-wincest" as the brothers have a very close relationship. Read at your own discretion.

A/N: Please read the warnings! Credit must go to Pine tranio, who was the test audience for this fic. Thank you!

o0o00O00o0o

_Eviscerated_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

_His ears roared as he flung open the screen door, knowing already that he was too late. A trail of red blood slicked the tile. _

"_Oh, God," Sam whispered, horrified. "What have you done?"_

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Four

The back steps of the clinic were sun-baked, the warmth seeping into Sam as he sat on the top step, staring out at the two cars in the small parking lot. The Impala sat next to Jim's rusty pick-up, dusty and neglected. He couldn't help but look over the classic car— _Dean's baby_ —and think of his brother with sudden sharpness.

It had been two days since the surgery. In that time, Dean had slept mostly, a combination of painkillers and physical defeat yielding consciousness to slumber. His body was weak from excessive blood loss and any movement that pulled on his split stomach caused him pain. Jim had not been joking when he said _major_ surgery.

Sam had to help him with even the simplest tasks. The surgery had cut straight through his abdominal muscles and he couldn't so much as sit up without Sam's assistance.

"He needs to walk around," Jim had said, little more than a few hours after the surgery.

"He can't _walk_," Sam had scoffed, aghast. "He was just butchered in your backroom— He can barely sit up."

"Sam, proper blood flow and circulation needs to be encouraged or else a blood clot could form," the doctor explained. "I'm not asking him to do the Boston Marathon— He just needs to stand up and walk for a few minutes. You'll have to help him."

A rueful smile crossed his lips. "Dean's not going to like that."

"He's not going to have a choice," the doctor had said. "If he wants the best recovery possible, he'll do it. The truth of it is he won't be able to do much of anything on his own for a while."

It wasn't until Sam had actually helped Dean to move from the bed that he realized just how decimated his brother truly was. His movements were slow and timid as if standing was new, uncharted territory.

Stooping over him, one hand at Dean's waist, and the other guiding Dean's arm across his shoulders, Sam wished he wasn't so much taller than his brother. He could feel Dean shaking, his body struggling against the simple effort of walking.

"_Jesus,"_ Dean gasped, hand instantly pressed to his abdomen.

"What is it?" Sam asked, half afraid of the answer.

"Insides feel like they're falling out," Dean whispered.

Sam paled, flashing back to seeing Dean's intestines outside of his body.

"Go slow and they won't," Jim instructed. "Don't worry, it's normal to feel that way after this type of surgery."

_Normal,_ Sam had thought. _There's nothing _normal_ about any of this._

It seemed like a lifetime ago when things were any kind of normal for the Winchesters. Squinting into the sun, Sam tried to remember what was normal, even for them. He'd spent so much of his life wishing for ordinary and now he could no longer tell what was and what wasn't. The line that had once been so clear and black and rigid was now a smudged gray blur.

Feeling suddenly lonely, Sam realized he _missed_ his brother. While Dean was physically there, he was not really _present_. It was strange to be with Dean and miss him at the same time. Sam found that he wanted crude comments, brother baiting and the endless barrage of classic rock. But mostly, he yearned for his brother's reassuring presence at his shoulder, that feeling of being _protected,_ that Sam hadn't even realized Dean still provided him.

Pulling out his phone, Sam dialed Bobby's number. "It's done," Sam said simply, when Bobby answered.

_He okay?_

"He'll live," Sam asserted, and then a pause, "It was _awful_." Bobby didn't say anything, but he didn't have to for Sam to know that he understood how awful it truly was.

"I— Dean— he's going to be out of it for some time," Sam said. "Could be months."

_You could use some downtime,_ Bobby replied.

"If you hadn't recommended Jim—," Sam stopped, not wanting to voice the _then _consequence. He cleared this throat and said, "I can't thank you enough."

_No thanks necessary, Sam. When Dean's ready you should come out here,_ Bobby offered. _You know I've got the room and I certainly wouldn't mind the company._

"We really appreciate it, Bobby," Sam said, not knowing what else to say.

_Take care of yourself, too, Sam._

"Yeah," Sam said softly as he flipped the phone shut.

A warm summer breeze drifted over him, and he found no peace in it. Something else was coming, Sam knew it, could feel the tension all around him. The waiting was making him crazy.

He pressed his eyes shut, feeling them burn with fatigue. Sleep had eluded him these past two days. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his brother carved up before him or the demon's blood soaked talons ripping through flesh.

It was wearing him thin. He just wanted Dean to get better, and to move on away from Winnett. _Put this all behind us,_ Sam thought. _Just Dean and me back on the open road._

Soft footfalls came to a stop behind Sam as Jim stood in the entry. "Sam?" he asked, sounding troubled.

Fighting the pang of worry that was very prevalent these days, Sam twisted around and looked up at the doctor.

"Could you come here?"

Sam stood and followed him obediently to the operating room, the scene of the crime. "I'm not sure what I should do with it," Jim said, pointing to the white bucket on the other side of the room.

Sam stared at the plastic container, noting that it had not moved from its place since he had kicked it there during the procedure. He had almost forgotten the rakshasa hunt wasn't finished yet. "I need to dispose of it," Sam said. He caught Jim's eye and added, "Someplace secluded."

Jim nodded. "I think I know a place," he said, giving him instructions to a location a good thirty minutes drive away.

There was no time to waste now that Sam had a purpose. He wanted to get rid of the demon before Dean was well enough to start asking questions. He never wanted Dean to see the thing that had had nearly ripped him apart. Sam didn't want to see it again, but this he could do for his brother.

Stopping in the doorway of Dean's darkened room, Sam leaned against the jam and said, "I've got to go take care of something. I'll be back in an hour or two."

Lying on his back, face turned away from the door, Dean didn't stir when Sam spoke, just continued breathing slow and steady with a rhythm that suggested sleep. Problem was that Sam wasn't entirely sure he really was asleep.

_Why won't you talk to me?_ Sam thought as he walked from the door, demon in tow.

The bucket was heavier than he expected, the rakshasa a dense weight inside it. Sam put it on the floor on the passenger's side of the car. The Impala roared to life, antsy from disuse, and sped Sam down a lonely Montana road, putting miles between the demon and Sam and his brother.

o0o00O00o0o

It was the middle of a blindingly bright, beautiful day, but Sam was unconcerned about bystanders getting an eyeful of a noontime salt and burn. The place that Jim had suggested was abandoned for miles and miles, nothing but brushwood and overgrown yellow fields in any direction. It seemed like there was at least one perk to living in isolated Winnett— plenty of privacy for doing whatever it was that needed doing.

Sam pulled the Impala onto dirt shoulder and trekked his cargo through the undergrowth until he came to an innocuous spot, someplace where the smoke would be obscured or at least mistaken for a natural brush fire.

Trying for impassive, Sam only removed the items he would need from the trunk— salt, lighter fluid and a shovel. With bucket in tow, he set off for the best location for the job. Setting the bucket on the grass, Sam dug a shallow hole just deep enough to control a fire.

With a deliberate breath, Sam flipped the lid off and peered into the bucket. The holy water was pink and cloudy and the demon floated face down along the surface.

Sam wrinkled his nose in distaste. Quickly, he tipped the bucket upside down over the hole he'd dug. He couldn't be sure the demon was dead— Could rakshasas drown in holy water? It _looked_ dead, but Sam wasn't about to take any chances.

He stared at the damn thing, feeling bile rise in his throat. _This thing was inside my brother— almost killed him— _ He took a breath that came out more like a sob.

_Fuck impassive_, Sam thought. Wanting to force the horror behind him, he stood, moving quickly before he thought too much about it. He cocked his gun and fired blessed bullets into the demon, shooting until his clip emptied. The noise boomed out through the field, but there was no one to hear it.

_Finish the job,_ Sam thought. _Get it done._

Suddenly frantic, Sam emptied a bottle of lighter fluid over the corpse, jerking it frenetically, trying to rush the liquid from the small opening. It sloshed over the demon corpse, the disturbed dirt and the toes of Sam's boots. Whatever was left in the canister of salt was scattered hastily over the shallow grave. He threw both empty containers to the ground, and then shoved his hands into his pockets, searching for a light. His fingers curled around Dean's zippo. Sam flung it into the hollow and watched as the whole thing blazed in an unholy bonfire.

The flames burned brightly, rising high as it devoured the accelerant and Sam wished it would devour him too.

_God, Dean_, he thought, his mind still there in that operating room, hands slick and knuckle deep in Dean's blood. Burning the rakshasa did not give the release he'd hoped for. _Only Dean can do that_, Sam thought with surprise, not realizing until now that he wanted his brother's absolution. Knowing this did not ease the knot in his chest.

It wasn't really forgiveness that Sam was seeking, but he could not identify what it was that he needed from Dean.

o0o00O00o0o

Jim lingered at the door for a minute, listening. Having returned from disposing of the demon, Sam sat at Dean's bedside, trying to seek solace in his brother's stoic presence.

It would taste a lie if Jim said he wasn't worried about the Winchester brothers. A good judge of character, Jim could tell they were fine, decent young men, despite only knowing them for a few days. Being a hunter was a dangerous, usually thankless job and it hardened most men who took up its burden. Whatever the hunt had taken from the Winchesters, it had not yet stripped them of their devotion to each another. It was clear from the second Jim discovered Sam's concerned face outside his door and witnessed Dean's gentleness to his brother in the face of such a terrifying situation, that their familial bond was stronger than most.

But this awful _thing_ that had happened to them had shattered the pair and the doctor feared they'd never find all the pieces. Sam kept a calm exterior, but Jim could tell he was wound wire-tight with worry, and Dean was just a shadow of the man Jim had met two days before. Neither was ready to leave his care.

"I've called Sarah and delayed her coming to do the books until tomorrow," Jim began as he stepped into Dean's room, announcing his presence. "We've been lucky that it's been so quiet, but it won't be for very much longer."

Dean nodded, understanding. "You need us to leave. No problem, Doc. We can be out of here before noon." He threw back the bed sheet, preparing to get up from the bed, face twisting in pain as he pushed himself to rise.

"_Not so fast,"_ Sam hissed, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders, holding him in place. "Take it easy, Dean."

"Hold on there, that's not what I said," Jim replied quickly. "You can't stay at the clinic without someone finding out you're here, but that doesn't mean I'm kicking you out." Jim paused, straightened a bit and fixed his features with his most fatherly expression. "You boys are welcome to stay with me," Jim said. "I have a guest bedroom that doesn't get much use anymore." Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Jim cut him off. "Really, son, there's not another decent place to stay for miles and cooped up in some car is not going to do you any favors."

"You've done so much already," Dean said. "I can't just take advantage—."

"Well, when you're feeling better, I could use some help around the ranch, gotta get it ready for the winter," he said with a smile. "Seems like a fair trade to me."

Dean was shaking his head, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of someone helping him out for a change. "_Dean_," Sam said in a low exasperated voice. "Come, on," and the two stared at each other. The doctor looked from Dean to Sam, recognizing the silent disagreement going on between the brothers.

"I can't make you stay," Jim said, trying to facilitate his proposal. "But I'd really like it if you would. I'll let you two talk it over, of—."

"Yes," Sam said, overriding Dean's protests. "We'll take that offer."

o0o00O00o0o

It seemed like a lifetime ago when Sam had last stepped foot in Jim's ranch house, even though it'd been little over two days. Sam held Dean tightly as they maneuvered the short steps up the front porch. Clearly, the short journey from clinic to house took a massive effort on Dean's part, one that neither brother had been expecting.

Trembling from the exertion, Dean took a shuddering breath, almost a shaky laugh as if he couldn't believe that three little steps hurt so damn much. With gentle hands, Sam guided his brother through the door and down the short hallway to the room that was to be theirs for the time being.

The guest bedroom used to be Molly's, but she had long since vacated the room, having a family of her own in Helena. Long ago the space had been stripped of personal touches, but it had acquired an eclectic assortment of furniture that gave the room its own kind charm. One queen-size bed was pressed against the far wall with two small nightstands on either side of the headboard. There was a hope chest was at the foot of the bed with a folded quilt on top of it. The room had two windows looking out onto the front yard with a big, well-worn armchair in the middle. A small wooden rocking chair was tucked into the corner, collecting dust. Off to the right was a private bathroom. There wasn't a television in the room, but there was a small shelf with books.

"You boys are welcome to anything that I have," Jim said, flicking on the light. "When you feel up to it, Dean, I'll give you the grand tour." Sam eased Dean down towards the bed, wincing in sympathy at the grunt Dean let slip.

"You okay, man?" Sam asked.

"Yes, _dear_," Dean snapped. Slouching there on the edge of the mattress, Dean looked completely wiped out.

"You hungry, Dean?" Jim asked him. "Can't have solid foods yet, but I'm sure I have something for you."

Dean shook his head. "I just want to rest." Both Sam and the doctor read _leave me alone_ loud and clear.

"Of course," Sam said quickly. "But you're eating something later," he insisted before following Jim out of the bedroom for a tour of the rest of the house.

The doctor's house was bigger than it looked from the outside. The ranch was one floor with the guest bedroom and a small dining room at the front of the house. The kitchen was the central location with the family room off to the left of it and Jim's office and bedroom to the right. There was a lot of land attached to the property, as it had been a farm at one time. A barn was out back, which Jim used as a storage unit.

"You two are welcome to stay as long as you need," Jim said. "I live alone, so there will be no one here to bother you. And as I said before, you may help yourself to whatever I have here."

Sam nodded, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Jim's features softened and he said, "He's going to be okay, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam replied, still not entirely convinced. "So, what kind of stuff needs to get done around here?" he asked.

"Sam, I didn't mean you had to work off—."

"Seriously, Jim, I'm going out of my mind. I need the distraction," Sam said. "Please, give me something to do."

Jim nodded and said, "Well, then, let me introduce you to the porch."

They stood together out on the front lawn surveying the rickety, wrap around porch. "It really needed to be repaired at least two winters ago," Jim admitted. "I just can't let it go another season."

Sam eyed the decaying wooden structure warily. The steps needed to be replaced as did the railing and some of the beams too, but the main structure was still sound, thankfully. The whole thing needed a new coat of paint or two. The entire house did, actually.

"Got some lumber out in the barn," Jim said nodding to the small structure behind the house. "I'll be helping you, of course, but I'm not as young as I used to be," he said with a smile.

"I don't even know where to begin," Sam said, staring at the rotting deck.

"One thing at a time, Sam," Jim said. "I actually have most of the measurements. Perhaps you'd like to try something less daunting?" Jim asked and gestured behind them.

Sam turned and saw the remains of a wood beam fence peeking out behind the swaying yellow grass. As if on cue, the fence groaned balefully in the gentle breeze.

o0o00O00o0o

"Dean?" Sam asked, easing into the darkened bedroom. "You awake?"

Smelling of sweat and sawdust, he had just spent the last four hours lugging lumber around the barn and making sense of the tools Jim had on his workbench. When he had checked his phone to see the time, he was both grateful and amazed that four hours had flown by without obsessively worrying about his brother.

This time Dean really was asleep, soundly sprawled across the mattress. Sighing, Sam settled into the armchair between the windows. He didn't have the heart to wake Dean and he knew he would if he jostled the mattress and consequently disturbed Dean's wounds. There was always the couch, but Sam wanted to keep an eye on his brother.

The chair was more comfortable than the passenger's side of the Impala and with the help of physical exhaustion and the sound of Dean's even breathing, Sam fell asleep.

Sam dreamed in red, horrific images he wouldn't remember awake save for the unsettling feeling in his stomach. His dreams taunted him with his body's fragmented memories— the texture of wet warmth coating his fingers, the twist of tension in his gut, the unbearable whimper of pain forced from Dean's lips, the scent of his blood everywhere. Sam woke several times during the night with these impressions lingering at the edge of his peripherals.

When Sam got up in the morning, Dean was still sleeping. He stood, raising his arms overhead, stretching the kinks out of his back. _Maybe it's good that he's sleeping so much_, Sam thought as he observed bright paths of sunlight limn the edges of his brother's features. After all, Dean had lost a great deal of blood and he couldn't really do much of anything without aggravating his surgery wounds. _He just needs to rest for another day or so._

But, this trend continued for the next two days. Dean slept through the most of the day, getting up only when Jim said that he needed to walk around. And by then Sam knew that most of the time he wasn't really sleeping at all— he was just _lying_ there.

This was the most closed off Sam had ever seen him. In the four days since the surgery, Dean had said less than a dozen words to him. Sam was trying to be patient, trying to give him the space he needed to deal with _whatever_ this was, but Sam was at the end of his patience.

o0o00O00o0o

Dean listened to Sam's footsteps as they tread gingerly past their room, pausing only briefly at the door before continuing past. The screen door creaked open, and banged shut and the front porch groaned under Sam's weight as he rushed down the steps. Dean did not have to spy out the window to know his brother was headed across the parched grass to the barn where he would work out his frustrations on the new beams for the porch.

In some small place inside of him a voice raged to go after Sam and _tell_ him he was in trouble and needed _help_. But the voice was hard to hear, faint, as if buried six feet under ground.

Dean felt hollowed out, empty, as if Jim had taken more than just the demon out of him during the surgery.

He would be fine, he told himself. He _was_ fine. He did _not_ feel the horror settling into his bones nor the despair carving out his heart.

_What the hell is wrong with you?_ Dean thought. _Get it together._ But he just couldn't. And he didn't know _why._

Hand pressed to his stomach, Dean eased himself to a sitting position, pausing at the edge of the mattress. Lying around all day wasn't his style, but Dean didn't know what to do with himself— moving around took a lot of energy and it seemed that every gestured pulled on the incision, plus he didn't have an inkling of how to cope with these powerful emotions.

He'd never felt this exposed in his whole life. No matter how hard he tried to put this behind him, to find that wall he'd always put up between himself and anything too painful to handle, Dean simply couldn't. He felt like nothing would ever be right again and this realization staggered him.

_I don't even know what I need_, Dean thought. _I have no idea what's wrong or even how to fix it._

He wanted to crack jokes and steal food off Sam's plate and hunt ghosts and drive the Impala over miles of rolling asphalt with Metallica in the deck and his brother riding shotgun— he wanted _normal_. Dean was encompassed with a sense of despair so bleak that he couldn't even understand how to do these things anymore. The idea of laughing or even driving the Impala down the block felt unbearably impossible and these things brought him no joy. The memories of what he used to be cut him, jagged edges scraping against his soul.

_I can pretend_, Dean thought. _I've done it before_. Like when Sam left for Stanford. Like when John died. He'd pretended he was fine, that he wasn't hurting, and it had worked. Eventually. Mostly.

Though his brother hovered like a mother hen, he had backed off when Dean had made it clear he was in no mood to talk. But Dean sensed that this was about to change. Sam was about to blow his top.

_I'll never be me again_, he realized. _But I can pretend._ And he rose out of bed to go put on a show.

o0o00O00o0o

"What do you think you're doing?" Sam asked, eyes wide as he stared at the mess of weapons across the table. Sam had spent another day sequestered in the barn, keeping his troubled mind occupied with measuring and cutting beams. When he entered the house, he was surprised to find Dean not only out of bed, but cleaning their entire weapons store at the kitchen table.

"I'm glad you're up, but Dean, what were you thinking? You walked all the way to the car and lugged all this equipment in here? Are you _nuts_?"

"What am I supposed to do?" Dean retorted. "Sit around and knit booties for the demonic baby we didn't have?"

Taken aback, Sam sputtered, "You've spent the last four days in bed— you should pace yourself before you launch into stuff like this. How did you even get all this in here?" Sam asked, knowing that his brother must have taken several trips to the car, which was a tremendous strain on his still healing body. "You need to rest," Sam said, barely holding back his exasperation.

"I'm _sick_ to death of resting," Dean retorted. "I don't _want_ to goddamn _rest_ anymore."

"It's only been a few days, Dean," Sam replied. "You have to give yourself time."

"Fuck time," Dean said. "You wanted me up—I'm up. Don't nag me, Sam."

Sam paused, choosing his words carefully. "I know it's difficult—."

"You don't know anything about it, Sam," Dean snapped, throwing a rag to the tabletop with a violent _thwap_. "I can barely take a piss without someone's help."

"Healing takes time, Dean," Sam said. "There are no shortcuts for this."

"I just want to put this behind me," Dean said angrily. "I don't want to feel this way anymore." Then he clutched at his stomach, drawing breath sharply.

"Dean—," Sam began, starting towards him.

Stepping back, Dean held up a defensive hand, warding his brother off. "Back the fuck off," Dean growled. "Just leave me alone." And he stalked off, leaving Sam in the kitchen.

o0o00O00o0o

Jim peered through the screen door and saw Dean leaning against the railing of the front porch, blowing out slow, shaky breaths. He stepped out onto the porch, letting the screen door swing shut behind him and came to a rest beside the elder Winchester.

"Dean, you have to take it easy," Jim said. "I know it's frustrating, but you have to remember that it's not just one incision with stitches you have to worry about— there's a whole lot more on the inside. If one of those tears and you start bleeding inside, I'll have to open you up again. It might be too much for your body to take."

Dean sighed, elbows on the railing, resting his head in his hands. "I'm not used to this," he said. "I've never been— I've never needed—."

Jim smiled. "Let Sam be the big brother for a little while, okay?"

"I've been taking care of him his whole life," Dean said. "I took care of us."

"Sounds to me like you've earned a vacation," Jim replied. "The biggest mistake you can make right now is taking on too much. Let him help you now, and you won't regret it later."

"I feel so goddamned useless," Dean confessed quietly. "Can't take more than ten steps without needing a breather." Then he chuckled. "After all this, I don't even have a baby to distract me."

Jim considered this. "It's normal to feel this way, Dean."

"Normal?" Dean whirled around. "What the hell is _normal_ about this? I had a fucking demon growing inside of me and now I don't even know how I'm supposed feel. It'll _never_ be right again, never be fixed. I'll never be the same as I was, not after this."

"I meant, it's normal to feel this way after major surgery," Jim said. "What happened to you was terrible and it certainly wasn't your fault. You're probably in a little bit of shock still. Your body needs time— you need time. I think a weaker man might not have survived the surgery let alone the aftermath."

"Don't blow smoke up my ass, doc," Dean scoffed. Turning away, he braced himself against the railing with one hand while the other cradled his stomach down by the incision line. His eyes scanned the darkness out of habit, searching for the dangers he knew could be lurking within the night.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Jim said calmly. "It's okay to need help, Dean."

The evening air blew cold across his flushed skin and he shivered as his anger deflated, turning his hazel gaze upon the doctor. "Sam means well. I know that, I do," Dean admitted softly. "I don't know why I'm so angry."

"You're tired," Jim said. "You're hurting and your body is trying to heal. You're probably quite sore after today. I'm going to give you some painkillers, which will help you sleep. You're going to take them without an argument and then you're going get some shuteye."

Dean smiled a little and said, "Guess you got my number down, huh, doc?"

"I know a thing or two about headstrong patients," Jim replied, "having raised one myself."

o0o00O00o0o

_Sam rolled onto his side, into something cold and slick on the mattress. He opened his eyes. Dean lay on his side facing Sam, stitches popped, intestines spilling out, and blood everywhere— dead. _

Sam sat bolt upright with an audible gasp, eyes wide with terror and blind in the dark. Panic flooded his every sense, nearly overpowering his lungs to breathe—

Fumbling in the dark for the beside lamp, Sam snapped the light on and gazed around wildly for his brother— who lay on his back on the same bed next to him, perfectly fine.

Still, Sam was scared, the dream so real that he had to make sure— he threw back the covers, hands trembling, to find nothing at all, but sleeping big brother beneath the sheets.

"Sam?" Dean asked, a whispered mumble from his medicated haze, squinting in the light. "S'matter?"

"Nothing, Dean," Sam said. He switched off the light. "Go back to sleep."

_He's all right_, Sam thought, staring up at the ceiling, trying to control his breathing into a less erratic rhythm. _God, he's all right._

Though it may have been nothing but an unconscious movement in sleep, Dean shifted, leaning his forehead against Sam's shoulder. The feeling of his warm presence beside him helped calm Sam's pounding heart, reminding him that Dean was there and _not dead_.

Sam had actually gone to bed before his brother that night and he only vaguely remembered when Dean had slipped into the bed with a whispered, "Goodnight, Sam," before falling deeply asleep.

Wide-awake, Sam traced the moon-cast shadows upon the wall with his eyes, going slowly over each shape as he tried to blot the violent dream from his mind.

This was not the first nightmare of the surgery to plague Sam's sleep. In fact, Sam knew he'd had awful, blood-soaked dreams every night since he'd seen his brother split open on the operating table, but this was the first one where the details were still etched in his mind upon waking.

o0o00O00o0o

When Sam went into the kitchen the next morning, he found their munitions still spread across the table, exactly as he had seen it the night before. His brother had thrown it in his face that he couldn't do anything without him hovering at his elbow, so Sam had made it a point to leave the weapons to Dean. But Dean hadn't finished cleaning the guns. Sam hadn't expected him to haul the equipment back to the car, but Dean hadn't even cleared off the table.

Sam frowned, staring at their arsenal strewn across Jim's kitchen table. As far as Sam could remember, Dean had never once just left the weapons half-done. He'd been taught to respect a weapon— it was something dangerous, not to be casually left around, and it was their lives at stake if they malfunctioned.

_It's almost if he didn't have the heart to finish_, Sam thought with alarm. Sam completed the cleaning that Dean had started, and then put the weapons back in the trunk.

It was nearly noon when he was done, but Dean was still curled in bed.

The last time they had spoken resulted in fireworks, but Sam couldn't ignore this. Dean wasn't even pretending to sleep anymore. He simply lay there supine, head turned away from the door, arm draped overhead.

"It's almost noon," Sam said, quietly. "You should get up. I'll make you something to eat." Sam regretted how things had escalated the previous day. This was the first interest that Dean had attempted post-surgery, besides sleeping in, and Sam had chastised him for it. "Please, Dean, let's start again."

At first, Sam didn't think Dean was going to answer him, but then he said quietly, "Yeah, whatever." He moved to get up, a scowl of pain on his face as his healing body protested.

Sam took three strides forward then stopped at Dean's pointed glare. The intensity of anger in his gaze startled Sam and he retreated back a step.

"Gonna take a shower," Dean said quietly.

"You, ah, need any help?" Sam asked. That's all he needed was for Dean to fall in the shower and crack his head open.

"I got this," Dean said. "Go fix me something to eat, bitch."

A small smile pulled at the corner of Sam's mouth. _Maybe he is feeling better_, Sam thought as he made his way to the kitchen.

o0o00O00o0o

Dean leaned his forehead against the fiberglass wall, letting the spray of warm water run down his back.

Anger welled up inside him. He wanted to pound his fist against the wall, wanted to feel it smash and yield satisfyingly to his anger, but he knew the sound would bring Sam bursting into his one sanctuary in the house. His want for privacy outweighed everything else; it held his fist in check.

Dean couldn't comprehend this stark animosity he harbored towards Sam, the one person he loved and trusted above all others on this earth. Sam was probably the only person who could even come close to understanding what he was going through.

_But he doesn't understand,_ Dean thought. _Sam doesn't understand and I don't know how to explain it to him._ What was so hard about talking to Sam about all the messed up feelings running through his skull? _Everything— every single thing—_

Emotion rose through his throat and he found tears welling in his eyes. He squeezed them shut tightly, determined to have control over at least one thing.

Dean felt betrayed by his body. He should be stronger than this. He shouldn't need so much goddamned help. He shouldn't be so fucking emotional about every fucking thing.

A demon had been inside him; he'd had a little surgery, big deal, _get over it, why can't you just get over it?_ Dean willed himself to pull through. _It'll go away by itself— I can snap out of this._

Something was wrong with him. It was as if the rakshasa had poisoned him, laced his blood with unshakeable sorrow, and put icy despair in his bones. Hopelessness welled within him that he could not contain. Dean felt used and useless.

_The demon will never be gone,_ he thought. _It'll always be inside me._

Dean was immobilized by the vastness of this thought, felt a hot rush of shame blush through him. He was weak. _Pathetic. A failure. Worthless._ All these thoughts stormed him at once, devastating, destructive judgments masquerading as truth.

_I just want this to go away,_ Dean thought desperately. _Please, God, just make it all go away._

o0o00O00o0o

As it turned out, Jim was having a busy week. He'd been called away to a ranch thirty miles west to check out handlers who had been knocked unconscious while trying to calm a herd of stampeding cattle, and the hospital were he worked a shift or two each week had called him in to cover extra shifts.

Sam discovered this when he found the note Jim had left for them attached to the microwave with a piece of Scotch tape.

The sound of water rushing through the pipes indicated that Dean was still in the shower. Dean still had to be careful about what he ate, so Sam opted to reheat some soup from the night before.

The past few days he'd spent a lot of time by himself, working through his anxiety and frustration measuring and cutting lumber in the barn. At the rate Sam was working, he could have everything ready for construction by next week. He'd hoped that Dean would be well enough to join him, not actually working, but keeping him company in the barn. It would do him some good to get out of the house.

The sound of the water abruptly stopped and Sam surmised that Dean would be ready soon. Knocking on the bedroom door, Sam called, "Hey, soup's on."

Through the closed door Dean replied, "Save me a seat." Sam found himself grinning and thought fondly, _What a dork._

Returning to the kitchen, Sam put out a place setting for his brother, and then sunk into one of the kitchen chairs, waiting for Dean.

_Dean doesn't want to be mothered,_ Sam thought. _I get that. But Dean doesn't ask for help when he needs it._

The ridiculous double standard that Dean lived by drove Sam to the brink of insanity. Dean didn't care what happened to himself as long as Sam was safe. No matter what Sam did to prove himself, or to show Dean that his life was of equal worth, Dean just couldn't rewire his thinking to believe that.

Usually, this proved to be only a minor nuisance, except when Dean was gravely hurt either physically or emotionally. When their father died, Sam watched his brother tailspin down to a very dark place and it took Sam actively calling Dean on his bullshit before he began to heal.

Dean entered the kitchen, shuffling quietly to the table. "Careful, Sam, or your face might stay that way," he said, noting his brooding expression. "Oh, too late."

"Shut up," Sam said with a smile. "Eat your soup, like a good little boy."

Furtively, Sam scrutinized his brother as he sunk into the chair beside him and hesitantly tasted the soup. Despite being freshly showered and dressed, Dean looked awful. His skin looked gray, and for all the sleep Dean was getting there were dark circles under his eyes. His motions were careful and guarded as if still testing what actions caused him pain. Right now mostly everything did. Dean was willful, and determined to do as much as possible by himself, even if it was too soon.

"Want to go for a little drive?" Sam asked, hopefully. "Change the scenery?"

"No," Dean said quickly, then he leaned back in his chair, easing into casual as he added, "Don't really feel up to that yet."

Sam noticed that Dean wasn't really eating, just pushing the soup around the bowl. He frowned and tried another tactic.

"Hey, I found a cassette player in Jim's storage closet," Sam said. "I'll get your tapes from the car."

Dean smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "No, that's okay."

"So, what are you going to do then?" Sam replied, exasperation in his tone. "Just sit here?"

"I didn't ask you to entertain me," Dean said. "You go do whatever it is that you do around here. I'll be fine."

"You'll be fine, Dean?" Sam repeated incredulously. "You'll be fine moping about? I know this is difficult, but you're not even trying to get better."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sam thought for sure that they were about to have an encore performance of last night, but instead, Dean seemed to shrink a little.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean said listlessly. "Nobody's trying harder to get past this than me."

Plain as day, Sam suddenly saw through the pretense. Dean was only going through the motions— smile here, joke there— putting on what he thought Sam wanted to see. Something was really wrong with his brother.

"What's the matter with you?" Sam asked.

That did manage to ignite Dean's fuse— he went from diminutive to furious in seconds. "What do you know about it, Sam? Have you ever had a demon growing inside of you?" Dean snarled, but his eyes were scared. "You don't have any idea what this is like, so don't you dare try to _lecture_ me about _not_ trying."

"Then _talk_ to me," Sam snapped. "I don't understand what's going on with you."

"I—," Dean stopped, a visible struggle dancing across his face and for an instant he looked disheartened. "We're done with talking." Dean said finally, rising up from the table.

Stunned, Sam watched as Dean stalked out of the kitchen. He paused at the door, head turned to the side, but gaze focused down, not on Sam.

"I can't do any better than this, Sam," Dean said and he seemed to wither again before he departed.

o0o00O00o0o

A ringing phone startled Dean out of his stupor. He blinked unsure of how much time had passed between his argument with Sam and the present moment.

The ringing was coming from Jim's office where the only phone in the house resided. Dean crossed through the kitchen and listened to the tone. It rang and rang, the shrill, old tone cutting across his brain like a razor.

Jim was at the hospital and Sam was outside working on repairing the fence.

_It's none of my business_, Dean thought as the ringing continued. But it _had_ to stop— it was annoying as all hell. And he felt compelled to answer it— it was the first thing he felt like doing in a long time.

Peering into Jim's office, he immediately spied the old rotary phone on the desk amid a mess of papers. Without thinking any more about it, Dean went to the desk and picked up the phone.

"H'lo?" Dean mumbled into the receiver.

There was a slight intake of breath on the other end, the person clearly not expecting to hear anyone but Jim's voice. "Hello," she said. "I was hoping to talk to my father, but I realize he must be at the clinic."

Mouth dry, Dean swallowed compulsively and whispered, "Yeah."

"I'm Molly," she said. "You must be one of the guests my father mentioned."

"Yeah— Dean," he said.

"Do you know when my father will be back?"

"No," Dean said. "Sorry, I don't know."

"Well, that's all right. I got to meet you, didn't I? I'll try again later."

Dean nodded, realized that she couldn't _see_ him nod and said, "Okay."

"It was good talking to you, Dean," she said. "You hang in there."

o0o00O00o0o

Sam entered the room quietly, expecting Dean to be asleep. But when Sam's eyes adjusted to the dark he saw that Dean was perched on the edge of the mattress, shoulders slouched, eyes dark and half lidded, weariness radiating off of him in palpable waves. It was as if Dean couldn't even be bothered to put himself to bed and the sight of him drowning in the deepest despair he'd ever faced broke something loose inside of Sam.

The next breath he took felt like glass on the highway. And the breath after that hurt just the same— and the one after that and the one after that until Sam thought he might be having some sort of empathic episode.

Slowly, Sam came around and stood in front of his brother. Dean did not look up. Sam crouched down in front of him so he could meet his brother's vacant gaze. The emptiness he saw there filled his own eyes with tears.

"Dean," Sam said. "This has to stop."

Dean said nothing, just stared blankly back at Sam.

"_Please. _Tell me what's wrong,_"_ Sam begged, grabbing Dean's arms in a fierce grip. "This can't go on. I know it was bad, but you've got to get it together. Just tell me what to do. Whatever you need, I'll do it."

Refusing to look at him, Dean kept his gaze downward. Sam gave Dean a good shake trying to get his brother to look at him, but it only caused Dean to recoil. _"Tell me how to help you."_

His hazel eyes shifted up, seeking Sam's imploring brown ones, heartbreak pouring through them.

"I don't know," Dean said finally. "Something's wrong with me, Sammy. Something's wrong— I don't know_— I don't know—._"

Sam must have shaken something loose in Dean for all his emotions were teeming over at once in an unstoppable flow, not unlike when he had bled out all over the operating table.

"Got a vice tightening around my chest," he whispered. "So much pressure. I just— can't— It'll never be right again—."

"Okay, it's alright," Sam soothed, desperate to patch this floodgate he'd opened. "Everything's going to be okay, Dean."

"Okay?" Dean whispered, face scrunched up in misery and Sam knew it was the absolute wrong thing to say. "You think _this_ is okay?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. The light of hope that Sam would understand went out in his eyes and his head dipped with despair.

"Oh, Dean," Sam said, horrified. "I'm sorry— I didn't mean—." Sam reached out for him, trying to undo the inadvertent damage he had caused, but Dean drew back from him, didn't want Sam to touch him, for the first time in a long time shying away from his brother's grasp like a wounded animal.

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

I am SO sorry that this took so long to get out. On the bright side it's the longest chapter to date! Thank you for the reviews— it's wonderful to hear from you guys! Please keep them coming.

Are we all enjoying season 3? (I'm on pins and needles waiting to find out what's going to happen with Dean!)

I am also posting this story on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. Friending welcome!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is (c) Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made— this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "Everybody Loves a Clown" and "Born Under a Bad Sign"

Summary: Dean's physical and emotional boundaries are broken. Sam does his best to hold everything together.

Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean, but very "smarmy"

Rating: R for language, horrific imagery and graphic descriptions

Warnings: MAJOR Crack!fic (well, I think it is anyway), hurt!Dean, mpreg, demons, horror, depression, graphic descriptions— think ER on SPN!crack. This story, while mpreg, is not Wincest or slash. Some might consider this to be "pre-wincest" as the brothers have a very close relationship. Read at your own discretion.

A/N: Please read the warnings! Credit must go to Pine tranio, who was the test audience for this fic. Thank you!

o0o00O00o0o

_Eviscerated_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

_Emotion rose in his throat and Sam made a strangled noise trying to squash it back down. He couldn't be the strong one anymore. He needed his brother to help him. He needed Dean._

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Five

Sam sat on the edge of a kitchen chair, his knee bobbing up and down. Nervous energy jittered down to his foot, like the flash of electrical current through a lightning rod. He pulled his hand over his face, letting it rest around his jaw as the situation ran through his mind.

Everything was all _messed up_, and Sam couldn't quite wrap his brain around it entirely. How had a demon hunt turned into _this?_ Dean had completely unraveled, no more than a pile of threads at Sam's feet. And Sam, who had inadvertently pulled that last strand free, could do nothing but watch as his brother came undone.

_Fuck,_ Sam thought angrily. _Why is this happening?_ He pushed his palms into his eyes, rubbing until red and green shapes swam before them.

The front steps groaned and the screen door creaked open as Jim stepped through into the hallway. Sam shot to his feet, not waiting for the doctor to take off his hat before descending upon him. Jim took one look at his face and said, "What's happened?"

"It's Dean," Sam began. "Something's really wrong with him— He just kind of— shut down." Sam swallowed, trying to force his constricting throat open. "I made it worse," he said, feeling something break loose in his chest.

Hands guided him back into a kitchen chair. Jim said, "Let me check on him," and he disappeared, heading toward the bedroom.

Rooted to his spot, Sam waited. The same anxiety that gripped him when he had first brought Dean to the doctor swallowed him up again. This was _Dean_, his big brother who always took care of everything (or tried to at any rate). Dean was broken and more hurt than Sam had ever seen him. The past year had been harder on the Winchester boys than any year previous. And the worst thing of all was that now Dean perceived Sam with distrust. He'd actually recoiled away from his touch. There wasn't a time in recent memory when Dean had purposely moved away from him when Sam had sought him out.

Jim reappeared in the kitchen, crossing the small space to Sam's chair.

"How is he?" Sam asked, eyebrows drawn together with worry.

His expression possessed that doctor-patented neutrality as he replied, "Not very responsive."

Scrubbing his hands over his face, then up through his hair, Sam slouched over, shoulders hunched in defeat.

Jim pulled out a chair from the table and sat down next to Sam. "I haven't known Dean for very long, but this behavior is abnormal for him?" Jim asked, his steel blue eyes searching Sam's face for the truth. "He's not usually this lethargic or apathetic towards life? His emotions don't normally go from extreme to extreme?"

"No," Sam said with a frown. "Dean doesn't— deal— well with emotions, but he's never been this erratic before. When he gets angry or upset he can never hold onto it for very long." A slight smile tugged at his lips. "When it comes to me anyway. Sometimes I think he'd forgive me anything."

"Dean's just not himself, is he?" Jim said gently.

Sam fixed Jim with a stare of his own. "What are you trying to tell me, doctor?"

"Physically, he's recovering nicely, but…" Jim's voice trailed.

"But what?" Sam prompted.

"I think he might be suffering from depression," Jim said carefully, watching for the younger Winchester's reaction.

The gears in Sam's head shifted into place. "Like, _postpartum_ depression?" Sam asked.

Jim nodded. "Yes."

Sam blinked, staring at the doctor dumbstruck. The notion just didn't make any sense. Postpartum depression. Dean. _Dean_ was suffering from _postpartum depression._ All at once understanding and denial encompassed Sam— _This is why he's been so profoundly despondent— my _brother_ cannot have postpartum depression—_

"Are you serious?" Sam gaped. "He was pregnant for less than a day!"

"That doesn't matter, Sam," Jim said. "His body went through all the stages of pregnancy, and developed all the hormones the demon needed to gestate. While he wasn't expecting a baby out of this, there's still loss— the physical loss and loss of self."

"How serious is this?" Sam asked. He didn't know anyone who had suffered from postpartum depression and didn't know what the repercussions were.

"It's usually a temporary condition, but it can be very serious," Jim said. "It depends on many different factors."

"How does this happen?"

Jim shrugged. "There's no way to know for sure. One theory is that hormones developed during pregnancy drop sharply within hours of the delivery and that this dramatic change causes postpartum depression. The change in levels would be even more dramatic in Dean's case because of how rapidly his body changed."

"Maybe it's an after effect of the demon?" Sam speculated. "How can I know?"

"There's no way to know for sure," Jim said. "It's very possible that demon hormones introduced into his blood stream have caused this depression in him. His body chemistry is probably all out of whack."

"What can we do?" Sam asked.

"I'm not a specialist in this area, but I would suggest counseling or medication or a combination of both."

But Sam was shaking his head before Jim finished his statement. "How would we ever explain to another doctor about these circumstances?" Sam asked. "You know how he is about taking medication— he's stubborn about the smallest pain pill. Dean will never go for psych medication."

"This is a very delicate situation," Jim began. "We need to get him into some sort of treatment right away, even if it's unconventional."

o0o00O00o0o

Time passed by in a haze. With each day Dean grew more despondent and withdrawn while Sam grew more desperate for answers.

There was no internet connection at the ranch and the complete lack of information flow was driving Sam insane. A thousand questions circulated through his mind and he didn't have answers to any of them. Sam took out his frustrations in the barn, splitting and sanding beams of wood for the new porch.

"I got you some books," Jim said from the doorway, startling Sam. He crossed the room and laid a stack of library books on the workbench.

Sam tilted his head to read the titles on the spines. There were four books: _Essential C-section Guide, Coping with Surgery, Living with Depression_ and _The Postpartum Husband._

Sam's eyebrows raised on the last one.

"It's not just for husbands, Sam. It's for partners and family members and friends and anyone who's concerned about someone suffering from postpartum depression." Then Jim smiled a little and said, "But definitely don't let Dean see that one."

"Thanks, Jim," Sam said.

"The surgery book is for Dean," Jim said. "I don't know if he'll read it, but it'll be there for him if he wants it."

o0o00O00o0o

The sun felt hot on his back, a layer of heat pocketing between his shirt and skin. When he couldn't stand the heat anymore he rolled over, letting the sun splash the side of his face, black and pink beneath his eyelids.

For an instant, he felt very much like himself, but the ever-present pain in his abdomen grounded his reality. He was disgusted with himself. What would John have said about his eldest son's behavior? Dean Winchester didn't wallow in self-pity, yet here he was, lousy with it. Deep down a part of him felt that maybe he _deserved_ the misery he was in, that maybe all he was feeling was just confirmation of the worthlessness he felt seeping through the cracks in his façade from time to time.

_What good are you to anyone? You can't do anything anymore— you're just useless now, a hindrance. Maybe Sam would be better off if you just—_

A shrill noise jarred him out of his thoughts. He held still and listened. It was the damned phone again, ringing and ringing and _ringing_ until Dean thought his skull would split.

_Someone make it stop_, he thought, but there was no end in sight. If Jim or Sam were around, they were not answering the phone. Dean forced himself up, gripping the mattress until the dizziness cleared, and made his way to Jim's office.

He didn't say anything when he picked up the receiver, just listened to the voice at the other end. "Dad?" the voice asked, and then after a pause, "Dean?" it guessed. He recognized the voice— _Molly, Jim's daughter. _"How are you doing?" she asked.

His first instinct was to lie. He wanted to say _just fine,_ but a shaky breath came out instead. Dean hadn't said a single word in two days.

"Not so good, huh?" Molly asked softly. It was quiet on the line for a long moment—long enough that Dean contemplated hanging up. "A hunter saved my life when I was eight years old," she blurted out suddenly.

It was so unexpected that it took Dean a few seconds to process. "What did you say?" He rasped into the phone, his voice course with disuse.

"It was the single most terrifying thing that's ever happened to me. I was playing in the yard and then suddenly this— _monster_ of teeth and claws and eyes was at my heels—a werewolf, apparently. Turns out that the man my father was treating right in our family kitchen was hunting that creature. He ended up sacrificing his life for mine— a hunter did that for me." She paused as if it was a relief to relay the incident to another. "Is that what you are, Dean, a hunter?" she asked.

When stunned silence was her only answer, she added, "Look, I know you don't know me, but I've been around my fair share of hunters thanks to my Dad. If you ever need to talk about what's happened to you— well, you can talk to me."

How could Dean explain to anyone that the shelf on which his life had always rested had somehow broken? The demon was gone now, but it had broken something inside of Dean, something he never realized could break. His heart felt leaden and he just _hurt_ all over, inside and out.

He felt despair and was shamed by it, ashamed he could feel so despondent. He tried to feel happy, tried to _remember_ what happy felt like. He knew he should feel grateful that he was alive, that he'd survived the surgery, but instead he was lost in a fog of misery. He didn't know why he felt empty and alone, isolated, like he'd never be happy again.

"Dean? Are you still on the line?" she asked.

"Yeah," he mumbled.

"My number is in the rolodex by the phone, under Molly," she said. "Don't hesitate to call me."

o0o00O00o0o

Thumbing through the books, Sam eyed the pages skeptically. What could these books possibly have to say that would help Dean? The man's guide to giving birth to a demon section seemed to be missing from all of the volumes.

But Dean was more despondent than Sam had ever seen him. There was a small but growing fear curling inside Sam that bloomed terribly whenever he looked at his brother. For the first time in his life, he feared that Dean might do something desperate to end his current misery.

If these books could offer even the slightest bit of help, Sam would take it. Curious, he flipped open _The Postpartum Husband_ to the "What You Can Do" section. There was a list of bullet points, advice stacked neatly in a column as if by following down the list this overwhelming disorder could be similarly contained and managed.

_Try to be patient,_ it read. Sam sighed, ashamed to think that he had become impatient with his brother. It was difficult not to get frustrated with him because nothing Sam said or did could unlock Dean from the prison of his own mind and body. He read on to the next one.

_Provide emotional support: tell her you love her._ Sam snorted derisively. _Yeah, that'd go over _real_ well,_ Sam thought. That would fall unequivocally under the "no chick flick moments" directive. _Although_, and Sam paused for a good moment, considering. Maybe Dean _did_ need to hear this. _Well, maybe not_ hear_ it_, Sam thought with a little smile. _But I could make sure he knows it without a doubt._

Sam let out a short, loud laugh as he read the next one. _Reassure your wife that you don't regret marrying her._ He pushed the book away, the absurdity of the situation hitting Sam full force. Not for the first time he felt frustrated and obstructed— this book couldn't possibly have answers for them. But then none of these books would have the master answer. Sam would have to piece it together like a patchwork quilt, but if there was one thing Sam was exceptional at, it was researching and finding patterns.

Sighing again, Sam pulled the book back towards him. Not everything in the book could be useful given their unusual situation, but it didn't mean that the whole book was a waste of time. He couldn't give up yet.

_Be especially sensitive to how your wife feels about her body right now._ The weakness from the surgery bothered Dean a great deal, but how much the actual physical deformity of his body affected him, Sam didn't know.

A sudden flashback to the operating room— his brother split on the table before him in vivid red detail— Sam sat up abruptly, bringing his hands to his face, trying to blot out the memory. God, Sam would never stop seeing it, never stop seeing Dean _like that_.

Hastening on, Sam read the second to last line in the list. _Tell her you think she's pretty._ Sam dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. _My, what a pretty amulet you have,_ Sam thought scathingly. _It really brings out the color in your eyes— Oh, God, it's hopeless._

Raking a hand through his hair, Sam set his eyes on the last sentence.

_Remind her that you'll be there for her, just as she would if you were sick. _ This one—_this one_— resonated with Sam and it made the sick feeling inside him blossom across his middle.

It occurred to Sam that even though _he_ knew he would never leave his brother, Dean would never truly believe it. For a long time after Sam had rejoined him in their quest, it was as if Dean was holding his breath, waiting for the moment when Sam would leave him once again. That fear of abandonment and uselessness had been cemented into Dean the moment Sam had taken off for Stanford.

Though it was unfair and Sam had every right to pursue his own life, he had done his brother wrong and he could never undo it.

Sam shut the book, rubbing his fingers across his mouth. There was no more room for screw-ups. If he was going to help his brother, then he had to find out everything he could about postpartum depression. Without further delay, Sam opened the book to the first page and began reading in earnest.

o0o00O00o0o

Despite the tension between them, Sam couldn't let his brother be alone. Dean had never coped well with solitude. His deep-seated fear of being abandoned coupled too well with seclusion.

It was late when Sam finally retreated to the bedroom. After spending the day immersed in research, Sam found himself stalling at the closed door. He understood a little bit better about what Dean was going through. The books were filled with facts about pregnancy and birth, about depression and emotional disorders, but what affected Sam the most were the firsthand accounts from postpartum depression survivors and their loved ones. He'd been brought almost to tears by their struggles, seeing their hardship mirrored in his brother. The most difficult reports to read were by family members whose loved ones had not survived the battle and taken their own lives.

He'd come to accept that depression wasn't something that could be treated like a bleeding wound, though they both offered the same threat. It wasn't something that could be seen or touched, or something that was consistent in any way. It was intangible and nebulous and fleeting just like the mind itself. Looking back, Sam could see how Dean had tried to fight the overwhelming emotions he was feeling and had failed to the demons in his head.

_Dean thinks he needs to be strong all the time— infallible— just for me_, Sam thought. _He didn't ask— no, he couldn't ask for help._

Sam was a little afraid to face Dean, afraid to truly see how bad his brother's condition was. It was not an easy road stretched out before them, but since when had the Winchesters ever done things the easy way?

The clock in the hall chimed softly, indicating a quarter past midnight, but the time hardly mattered for Dean hadn't left bed all day.

The room was dark, and though it took a moment for Sam's eyes to adjust, he knew what he would see before they did. Burrowed under the bed sheets, Dean lay curled into himself, a position that must have been agony on his incision wound. Sam crossed the short distance to the foot of the bed, watching his brother. Dean didn't say a word, though he was not asleep. He hadn't spoken in days.

Dean held himself perfectly still; Sam could see the tension in the taught muscles of his back. Worry ringed his mind like a kettle of vultures circling the sky. Hearing a soft gasp, an involuntary intake of air, Sam realized now that Dean was trying too hard to keep himself still, trying not to let his brother discover the tears rolling down his face.

A sharp ache clawed at Sam's heart. This had to stop. He couldn't stand it anymore. Dean suffered and Sam suffered right along with him. Sam simply couldn't bear to look into his brother's once vibrant gaze and see hollow, vacant eyes instead, to watch as Dean withered and died—

Sam crawled up onto the bed, leaned in close behind his brother, and circled his arms around him, holding him fast.

A startled noise escaped Dean and he pulled at Sam's hands, trying to force himself free. Sam fit his chin on Dean's shoulder, nose pressing into his cheek as he held him steadfastly, his embrace secure with all the things he couldn't adequately say with words, with all the love and strength and affection he felt for Dean. Sam gave him the only thing he had left, the only thing he hadn't tried yet.

"Dean," Sam whispered. "Dean— I'm here— And I'm not going anywhere, I promise you." He squeezed him tightly, a solemn pledge in his words and his touch. _Please understand me,_ Sam thought desperately, _Please know how much I love you, and understand that you will never have to face this alone._

Suddenly, Sam felt the resistance go out of Dean as he sagged against his hold. At first Sam thought he'd done the wrong thing again, but the hand clasped around Sam's wrist, that had been desperately trying to pry Sam loose, was only resting there now, thumb circling the bones beneath.

"Sammy…" Dean breathed, voice raw and full of emotion.

"It feels like it'll never get better," Sam said gently and he felt Dean nod, his close cropped hair brushing against his cheek, "but it will. Maybe not as quickly as you want, but you will get past this."

Dean didn't say anything. Sam felt a warm tear splash against his nose. "Let me help you, Dean. Trust me the way I trust you. Just, please, don't give up."

o0o00O00o0o

Though things were far from better, Dean was not alone in his struggle at least. He believed that Sam wouldn't abandon him in this. The situation improved in tides, sometimes forward and sometimes backward, ebbing and flowing a little bit further everyday.

Dean ventured out of the house for the first time in over a week, making his way slowly down the porch steps and around the ranch house towards the barn. His body remained weak from the surgery and he found even little actions to be taxing, so when Sam hurried over to meet him at the side of the house, he accepted his arm gratefully.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked. It would be weeks before Dean could return to any sort of physical activity. Walking around was perfectly fine, as long as Dean didn't stray too far, but helping Sam with the construction of the new porch was not.

"Wanted to see what you're working on out here," Dean said. "Somebody's gotta check the structural integrity."

"Structural integrity?" Sam said with a smile that told he knew the real reason Dean wanted to be out in the barn.

"Hey, I was around for your building block years," Dean said as Sam helped him across the yard. "Built some of the finest towers under my supervision."

He didn't say much, but Dean spent a good three hours outside with Sam that day.

Despite the new effort that both brothers put forth, difficult times still lay ahead. Dean outright refused medication no matter what Sam said or pleaded or yelled, and though he was talking again, he still remained maddeningly quiet most of the time. Both Sam and Jim tried to get him to open up, but Dean couldn't be forced into anything and when they tried to pry, he shut down. In the time-honored Winchester tradition, Dean suppressed as much as he could.

Dean felt ashamed that he couldn't control his emotions— they had taken the helm. This depression-hormonal thing or whatever it was seemed like an excuse for his lack of control. A part of him understood that this was bigger than he could handle alone, but the stubborn part of him wanted to will it away on his own. He didn't want to be dependant on anyone or anything let alone drugs.

Yet, he allowed himself to lean on his brother. Sam was an unyielding presence— Dean wanted to push him away and hold him closer at the same time. Sam was careful, handled him delicately as if Dean might break. Even though this was true, Dean hated it, hated that he needed to be treated with such care. But Sam was good at being gentle and strong and simply there.

Nights were hard on both of them when their minds were free to wander and their inner demons came out to play.

_Sammy, what would I do if you weren't here? _Dean thought when his brother settled into the bed beside him. Sam curled around him like he'd done when they were children, only instead of Dean resting his chin on Sam's wayward mop, it was Sam who towered over him.

"Goddamned giant," Dean whispered. He felt Sam smile into his neck as he snuggled further just to tease him.

And many nights Sam woke with a start, heart pounding a mile a minute and eyes glazed with fright. In the instant between Sam waking and his mind catching up to reality, Dean recognized true terror on his face. Guilt settled heavily in his stomach because Dean knew the nightmares were about him and the surgery Sam had been forced to witness.

"Sam," he whispered, reaching out to him with a gentle touch, reassuring Sam that they were both all right.

They were broken, but they were trying.

o0o00O00o0o

On the twelfth day after Dean's surgery, a car pulled in the driveway. As far as Sam knew they weren't expecting company, but a true smiled crossed Jim's lips when a woman with a little blond-haired boy emerged from the four-door sedan.

"Molly," Jim said, crossing the yard to meet her.

"Hi Dad," she said, giving him a kiss. Molly was a petite woman, just barely coming past Jim's shoulders in height. Her brown hair framed her face wildly and her smile was warm, crinkling kindly around her eyes, which were as sharp a blue as her father's.

The toddler squirmed down from his mother's grasp and wobbled to Jim's legs. "Grandpa," he said.

Jim scooped up the boy. "Luke," he said, "Let's go into the house. I have some friends I'd like you to meet." He turned with the little boy in his arms towards the ranch with Molly following behind.

"This is Sam and Dean," Jim said, gesturing to the brothers. Luke clung to his grandfather, smiling shyly at the Winchesters. "Sam and Dean, this is my daughter Molly and her son Luke," Jim said.

"Hello," Molly replied, striding forward to shake Sam's hand.

"Hi," he said, eyes skittering nervously towards his brother. How would he handle these unexpected guests? Sam was ready to intercept her, but Dean didn't recoil when she approached.

"You must be Dean then," Molly said, smiling at him, taking his hand between her two. "It's good to meet you."

Dean was silent, but he gave a little nod by way of a greeting. His gaze shifted towards the floor and he smirked suddenly. Sam looked down and realized that Luke was standing just beside him, looking up at him in wonder, clearly never having met someone as tall as he was. Kneeling down to meet the little boy's gaze (and even then Sam had to crouch), Sam said, "Well, hi there, Luke."

Shy of strangers, Luke looked to his mother.

"What do you say when someone says hello to you, Luke?"

The boy turned back to Sam and said, "Hi," and then he turned and went over to Dean and said, "Hi," before running back to his mother.

"I hope you don't mind," Molly said, looking from her father to Sam and Dean. "David's on a business trip this week and I thought now would be a good time for a visit."

"Of course I don't mind," Jim said. "We've got a full house right now, but you and Luke may use my room. You know I've spent many a night on the pull out in my office."

There were a few bags to bring in from the car, so Sam and Jim helped Molly with her suitcases while Dean sat with Luke in the family room playing with toy cars. Stealing a sideways glance at his brother, Sam watched him interact with the little boy.

Luke had two small plastic vehicles, a red fire truck and a blue police car, which he wanted to race along the coffee table. Keeping the fire truck for himself, Luke handed the police car to Dean, making _vroooom_ action car noises while he drove over the wooden surface. Sam shouldn't have been worried for Dean was a natural with children. Dutifully, Dean drove his police car around the path Luke made out, but then showed the little boy that if he pushed the car fast enough it would roll the entire length of the coffee table, fly off the edge and sail along the floor until it crashed into the couch. Luke laughed with amusement, and soon the two were racing the cars off the table to see which one could go the farthest. On his way out the door, Sam heard Dean say, "My car's a real beauty. I'll show you tomorrow if the weather's nice."

Molly decided that since she had crashed the party it was only fair that she cooked a nice meal for all of them and shooed Sam and Jim out of the kitchen. Before they joined Dean and Luke in the family room, Sam stopped Jim just outside the door. "You knew Molly was coming, didn't you?" Sam asked.

"I asked her to come," Jim replied.

"Then why all the pretense?"

Jim looked at him. "If Dean knew the real reason she was here, would he be as receptive as he has been?"

"Probably not," Sam admitted. "No, he'd be as willful as ever."

"I just hope she can reach him," Jim said. "She has experience with this sort of thing."

o0o00O00o0o

Having Molly and Luke around changed the dynamic of the house. Luke was innocent and full of wonder and Molly was a kind woman who offered a different perspective on things. It was good for Dean to interact with someone other than Sam.

More often than not, Dean ended up as Luke's playmate, but he was suited for the task. He couldn't lift or run after the little boy, but they shared a mechanical fascination and spent hours building block towers and drawing pictures and racing cars around the family room. Sometimes the activity exhausted Dean, but it also took its toll on Luke. Once Sam had checked up on Dean to find him and Luke napping on the sofa together.

Molly and Luke had only been at the ranch for three days and already Sam had noticed a change in his brother. This morning Sam peered through the screen door, observing Dean, watching him as he kept an eye on Luke. The little boy was playing in the front yard with a ball. Dean had a wistful expression as he watched the toddler pick up the ball and run on his little legs to his grandfather. Jim tossed the ball and Luke squealed with delight when it sailed over his head.

Sam came out onto the front porch and settled into the chair next to Dean. With a gentle summer breeze passing easily around them, they sat in companionable silence, watching the little boy play for a while. "He's delighted over the simplest things," Sam remarked.

"You used to be like that," Dean said, smiling a little. "Reminds me so much of you," he admitted quietly. "Stuff I forgot until watching him just now."

"Yeah?" Sam prompted.

"You were easy to entertain at his age. We were always cooped up somewhere— the car, a hotel— so running around any stretch of grass after a ball just enthralled you. Probably don't remember, you were so little," Dean said. "Dad always smiled when I brought you back all worn out. Meant a little peace and quiet 'cause even then you asked a ton of questions."

Dean grew quiet, lost in his remembrances. His brother surprised him with these moments from their past, and Sam wanted to know more, but he sensed that now was not the time to go traversing down memory lane. Dean's wistful expression had become suddenly doleful.

"Dean?" Sam asked.

"I'm— I'm going inside," Dean said, pushing himself up with a grimace. At Sam's concerned frown, he responded, "I'm just a little tired, Sam."

As he watched him go, Sam wished more than ever that he knew what was going on in his brother's head. Just _like that_ the pendulum swung the other way. Was it memories of their father that had caused the haunted look in his eyes, or was it depression catching its hooks into Dean?

o0o00O00o0o

Not more than five minutes had passed before there was a soft knock at the door. Dean expected it to be Sam coming to mother-hen him to death, but instead he saw that it was Molly at the bedroom door.

"This used to be my room, you know," Molly said, taking a few steps in and looking around.

"Sorry to have kicked you out of it," Dean said. He sat on the edge of the bed, hand pressed against his aching abdomen. He'd pushed himself too far again.

"You didn't. Actually, it's much easier being at the back of the house where I can watch Luke play with his grandfather from the window."

Dean didn't say anything else, so Molly continued. "Luke seems to get into all kinds of mischief these days so I've got to keep a close eye on him."

Dean was quiet, but then he smiled slightly and said, "Sounds like someone I know."

"You mean Sam?" Molly asked with a laugh as she sat down beside him on the mattress.

"The kid's as much trouble now as he was when he was Luke's age," Dean said.

"So, you're telling me it doesn't get any easier?"

"Luke's a good kid," Dean replied. "He'll turn out all right."

"He'll be grown before I know it," she said. "I can't believe it's been almost three years since he was born. In some ways it's flown by, and in other ways it's been an eternity."

When Dean didn't comment, Molly went on. "Luke was a tough delivery," she said quietly. "Things weren't going well, and I was in no way prepared when they told me I had to have an emergency c-section."

Dean turned towards her abruptly, understanding now where the conversation was heading and the trap he was in. "And you just thought you'd tell me all about it," he said sharply.

"Yes," she said. "Is that so terrible? Please don't be angry, Dean. I understand a little of what you're going through and maybe my experience can help you."

"Oh, you _know_ about having a demon growing inside of you?" Dean accused, coming to his feet. "You _understand_ what it's like feeling this evil _thing_ crawling around inside you? What it feels like on its way out? All the havoc it leaves behind in its wake? I'm not _me_ anymore and I'll never be again. How do I tell Sam the brother he knew is dead? _God, _his brother is_ dead—._"

"You're not dead, Dean," Molly said, placing a hand on his arm. "You're still you."

Dean shook his head, avoiding her gaze. He'd already said more than he intended. It was bottling up inside him, everything he couldn't tell Sam, or even really admit to himself, fears he didn't want to acknowledge.

"I may not understand everything," Molly began, "but I know enough, and what I don't know, you can help me to understand." She came around to meet him, peering up into his face. "I want to help you, if you'll let me," Molly said. "Whatever we talk about will stay here between us. It _does_ help to talk about it, instead of letting it fester inside. After this week you'll never have to see me again. No one has to know. Let me help you."

With a gentle prod, she guided Dean back to the mattress and sat next to him, waiting patiently for Dean to decide.

He wanted to talk to her, there were things he wanted to ask her, but it was so difficult to get the words out past the lump in is throat. "After the surgery," he started, "how long did the weakness last?"

"After my surgery I couldn't do anything," she said. "Not anything strenuous for nearly eight weeks. I needed help to walk. Stairs were impossible. I couldn't even lift my son. I felt wretched and weak and _angry_."

She paused, taking a breath. The memory of it was difficult for her to speak of, even after three years. "It was hard for me afterwards," she said. "My family tried to help me and the more they tried the angrier I got. I felt useless. I wasn't diagnosed with postpartum depression, but things got very dark for me for a while."

Dean looked at her intently, recognizing the parallels between them.

"My husband told me I was a different person for a while after the birth," she confessed. "And I know I wasn't myself."

"How did you— cope?"

"My family," she replied. "My husband and my son got me through it."

Dean scoffed, letting out a shaky, little laugh. "I don't have that."

"Yes you do. Sam loves you, Dean," Molly said, cutting right to the core. "He only wants to help you."

Feeling the threat of tears, Dean turned away from her, blinking furiously. "I'm not like _this_," Dean said with disgust. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Dean, it's not your fault," she said. "You can't control what you're feeling right now." Molly reached for his arms and turned him back towards her. She looked into his eyes and said, "It is _not_ your fault. You know that don't you? The best way to get through this period is to allow yourself these moments of despair. Know that you won't always feel the way that you do now, even though it feels like you'll never know anything different."

"I'm so _sick_ of this— so tired of feeling this way," Dean whispered. "I just want it to be over." He looked at the floor, feeling the weight of these words against his skull.

"It's okay to need help right now," Molly replied gently. "Not just from Sam or my father," she began, "but there are medications that can help you too."

"I don't need pills," he protested.

"There's no shame in needing medication," she replied. "It would just be for a little while to help equalize the chaos inside you. I understand your reluctance, but at least talk to my father about it."

Sighing, Dean nodded. "I'll think about it," he said. It was a concession he could grant.

o0o00O00o0o

Sitting out on the front porch, Sam was right by their bedroom window. Earlier he noticed that Molly was talking with Dean, and so he made it a point _not_ to look back, trying to give his brother privacy. When Molly came back outside a few hours later, she gave him a discreet little nod before rounding up Luke for a bath. So it was several hours later when Sam noticed through the window Dean was pacing back and forth, hands pressed at either side of his head, and he looked distraught.

Warning bells went off in Sam's head as he hurried inside the house. "Dean?" he asked, leaning in the doorway of their room.

"Leave me alone, Sam," Dean said.

Sam stood there instead, watching. Something had changed. Dean had been acting odd all day and Sam was worried. Dean was wrestling with something within.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam said, trying to remain calm. "You've been doing great, Dean. You're making real progress—."

"It's not like that!" Dean snarled. "It's not— _linear_— I don't know what triggers it or why— I felt fine— happy, even— but now—," he tore off, frustrated. "I should be fine by now— I should be over this— I shouldn't need any help—."

"_You should nothing,"_ Sam said forcefully. "Don't belittle what you're going through. There's no standard, Dean. Nobody thinks any less of you. I certainly don't."

Sam knew words like _weak_ and _pathetic_ were running through his brother's mind.

"Take me for a drive," Dean said suddenly.

It was so unexpected that Sam stood there stupidly for a moment before responding with a light, "Sure." He helped Dean to the Impala and they took off.

Sam drove without a place in mind, but found he had taken them to the one place he knew of— the field where he'd burned the demon. Dean seemed to know it without Sam having to say a word.

"Show me," he whispered.

Sam nodded, guiding his brother to the spot.

Dean lowered himself to the ground, kneeling before the pile of blackened ashes. Dean dug his hands into the cinders, fingers sifting through the ashes as if searching them for something. Sam didn't know what he was looking for, but hoped that he got whatever he needed.

The wind picked up bits of gray, scattering cinders like snow around him. He sat there for a long moment, and Sam lingered back, giving him space.

"It's really gone," Dean said.

o0o00O00o0o

Sam watched Molly totter about the kitchen fixing breakfast. Sam couldn't tell yet if her interference had been a help or a hindrance. Dean had been scarily quiet for the rest of the evening, and hadn't said a word to his brother until Sam had been ripped from sleep by another nightmare. Dean had been full of words then, saying anything to calm him.

Suddenly, Sam felt a tug on his pant leg and looked down to see Luke, one small hand on his knee, the other with a book. "I can read," he said. "Listen." And Luke hoisted himself with a little help from Sam onto his lap and began reading the ABC book. Sam delighted in the child, realizing how much this amazing little boy had helped Dean. When Sam looked up he saw his brother leaning in the doorway, a smile on his face.

"Two geniuses in one chair," he said. "You keep reading like that, Luke, and you'll be smarter than Sammy here, and Sam went to college."

"What's col-edge?" Luke asked.

"It's a place you go when you're really smart and you just can't help but want to know more. It's mostly for geekboys who study too much, but nowadays I hear that cool kids go too."

Luke scrambled down from Sam's lap wielding his book at Dean. "You read to me?"

"No way, buddy. You read it to me," Dean said. Disappointed, Luke pouted, giving Dean his best puppy-dog impression.

"Tell you what," Dean said. "You read it to me and then I'll tell you a story of these two brothers. One was a very handsome and dashing fellow who had to keep the other one out of trouble…" Dean led Luke into the family room and the door swung closed behind him.

Startled, Sam found his eyes filling with tears. Dean sounded almost like himself. _He probably doesn't even realize_, Sam thought as he turned away, self-consciously wiping at his eyes. _Please let the tide be turning for us…_

"Good morning," Jim said as he entered the kitchen. Molly kissed his cheek and put a plate of eggs on the table for him. As Jim tucked into his breakfast he said, "Sam, I was hoping you might be able to help me with something outside today before the storm hits."

"Sure," Sam said, sipping orange juice.

"And I think you should know," Jim said in a hushed voice, "that Dean came to me earlier asking about various medications that might help him."

"He did?" Sam asked.

Jim nodded. "He hasn't committed, but it's a start."

o0o00O00o0o

The rain came suddenly, beating upon the roof in an even _pit-pat._

"Oh no, Sam and Dad will be caught right in the middle of this," Molly said, pausing in her knitting to watch the rain bounce against the windows.

The doctor and the youngest Winchester had gone out to fell a few rotting trees that were within range of the barn before the storm hit. Jim had been meaning to do it for a while, but just hadn't gotten around to it, and Molly didn't want him cutting down any trees while he was by himself. With Sam willing to help and a big storm brewing on the horizon the present moment was the best opportunity for the job.

"They'll be home soon," Dean said, but he too stared out the window, contemplating the rain with a frown. He didn't like staying behind. Little more than two weeks ago he would have been more than able to fell a tree _and _help Sam out with the front porch. But what bothered him the most was leaving Sam without any viable backup. Not that a tree should give Sam any trouble (they were practically the same height), but Dean still had to worry a little whenever Sam was out of his sight.

Luke had a box of crayola crayons spread across the coffee table and a well-worn coloring book laid out under his fists. He and Dean were coloring a page together when a flash of lightning split the gray sky with a roll of thunder following right behind it.

"Whoa," Luke said, looking up nervously. He glanced at Dean, who smiled at him reassuringly.

"It's okay, Luke," he said. "Thunder can't hurt you— it's just noisy."

The wind picked up, rumbling around the ranch house. There was a distinct scratching noise from the kitchen. Molly and Dean glanced at each other and then towards the closed kitchen door.

"Did we leave the window open?" Molly asked. "Sounds like a shutter's blown loose."

"I'll check," Dean said, slowly pushing himself up from the couch. "Why don't you finish coloring this picture for me?" Dean suggested to Luke as he held out the jungle green crayon.

"Okay," Luke replied taking the crayon from him.

There was nothing amiss when Dean entered the kitchen. The window was closed tightly, and the shutters were secure in their places. Padding softly across the tile floor, Dean listened. Rain beat against the ranch, its constant cadence a nuisance. Lightning flashed and it was then that Dean saw a form slinking through the screen door.

A black dog with a shock of yellow hair between its ears stepped through the slash in the screen and into the darkened kitchen. Limping a few steps across the tile, it growled low in its throat and bared its teeth at Dean.

It was the other rakshasa, mate to the one that transferred her demon baby to him— the baby they killed.

"Oh, shit," Dean whispered as the demon hunched low, ready to strike.

_To be continued…_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's note:

I am a broken record: I am SO sorry that this took so long to get out! This chapter has a lot of stuff in it that I hope you enjoyed. There is ONE chapter left— I can't believe it's almost over. I have another story in the works after this one. Stay tuned for more details.

Thank you for the reviews— it's so nice to hear from other SPN fans. Please keep the reviews coming.

I have to say I'm a bit nervous what this writer's strike is going to mean for our show this season. Last year we were rallying to tell the network how much we loved the show to keep it on the airwaves— and this year I think we have to do the same thing, only now we have to get them to appreciate the writers too.

Wanna chat more about this? Head over to my LJ. I am also posting this story on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. Friending welcome!

Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.

- Li


	6. Chapter 6

o0o00O00o0o

Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is (c) Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made— this story is just for fun.

Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "Everybody Loves a Clown" and "Born Under a Bad Sign"

Summary: Dean's physical and emotional boundaries are broken. Sam does his best to hold everything together.

Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean, but very "smarmy"

Rating: R for language, horrific imagery and graphic descriptions

Warnings: MAJOR Crack!fic (well, I think it is anyway), hurt!Dean, mpreg, demons, horror, depression, graphic descriptions— think ER on SPN!crack. This story, while mpreg, is not Wincest or slash. Some might consider this to be "pre-wincest" as the brothers have a very close relationship. Read at your own discretion.

A/N: Please read the warnings! Credit must go to Pine tranio, who was the test audience for this fic. Thank you!

o0o00O00o0o

_Eviscerated_

By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)

o0o00O00o0o

Chapter Six

More than half as tall as Sam, the rakshasa took up the expanse of doorway, its presence intrusive. The large demon dog licked its teeth, emphasizing the massive cuspids protruding from its mouth.

For an instant, Dean could only stand there, frozen. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the demon. Rain hammered against the ranch house in a relentless cadence, muffling the room with a white noise. Hunting was something from a lifetime ago, the memory of it obscured behind a veil. Dean could vaguely see through it to the impressions beneath, but it was difficult to make out.

The rakshasa hunkered down low, its hackles raised, a rumbling growl in its throat like a rusty car engine. He should have known the demon would catch up with them. They had killed its entire family. It had nothing left but revenge.

Dean may not have been ready to face his demons yet, but his muscle memory was still intact. He eased his weight to the balls of his feet, readying himself to evade the attack.

The door from the family room pushed opened suddenly, and Luke tottered through, waving a coloring book page in his hand. "Dee, look," he said.

Revealing a row of sharp teeth, the demon smiled, and pounced for the little boy.

"No!" Dean shouted, lunging for the child himself.

Luke screamed in terror when the massive dog came at him. The rakshasa's claws dug into Dean's forearm, drawing lines of blood as he snatched the boy up in his arms. Kicking the demon away, Dean scrabbled up the kitchen wall with a grunt of exertion, trying to get to his feet. Fire ripped across his belly, but Dean swallowed the pain. Luke clung to his neck, sobbing. Rebounding, the demon charged at him again. Dean jumped back, dancing back from the rakshasa's clawed grip. Crashing into the counter, Dean held tight to Luke as height-lined jars of flour and sugar, and salt and pepper shakers clattered and glided across the counter-top. Dean snatched up the salt, popped the plastic grate off with one hand, and tossed it directly into the demon's snarling face.

Reeling from the purity of the natural mineral, the rakshasa twitched and gagged. It skidded to the middle of the tile floor, catching its breath.

Luke clung tightly to Dean, sobbing. "Shhh," Dean whispered to the crying child. "I got you." Warm blood dripped down his arm and onto the floor. Poison from the rakshasa's scratch was slowly working its way through his system, shrouding his focus. But he couldn't afford to be sluggish, and he willed himself to concentrate.

Molly burst into the kitchen. "Luke!" she cried, then stopped short, taking in the scene. The rakshasa paced back and forth, its gait irregular from the unhealed bullet wound in its shoulder. It was taking its time. Though it was injured, the demon knew it had the upper hand.

"Molly, stay back," Dean warned. The rakshasa was in between Molly and where Dean stood with Luke. The rakshasa tilted its head, considering the small woman. It glanced slyly back at Dean. The demon had unfortunate intelligence, and it smiled, knowing that its options had increased.

_What is it waiting for? _Dean thought, heart pounding. _Savoring its prey. _The second he took his eyes from the rakshasa he knew it would pounce. _Goddamned dog._

Fidgeting nervously, Molly's eyes were trained on her wailing son. Molly was a smart woman, but she was a mother too. Dean could see that she was contemplating a very rash and unwise course of action if it meant deterring danger from her son. "Don't move," Dean whispered. _"Molly—."_

But Molly didn't listen, edging towards them. Hackles up, the demon growled at her. She paused, but did not back away. She dashed to her left towards the sink and the rakshasa bounded after her. Molly reached for the cast iron frying pan that she used to cook breakfast with and hurled it at the demon dog. Luck kept her aim true, and the heavy pan hit the demon squarely on the top of the head. Dean rushed forward, tossed the rest of the salt at the rakshasa, and grabbed Molly's arm, pulling her towards him.

Molly took Luke from Dean's arms, holding the boy close. Dean's blood was splattered over Luke's shirt, a grisly appearance on a child so small.

"Are you okay?" she whispered as Dean shepherded her behind him. He nodded mutely, not taking his eyes from the demon twitching on the floor. It would recover in a minute and there would be no more hesitations. It was hurt and angry and would rip them limb from limb. Dean's mind raced— there was no time for a real plan. He needed to get to the impala, needed a weapon.

"Get to the front door," Dean whispered, "as fast as you can. Don't look back." The only cover Molly and Luke would have between the demon and the door was Dean himself.

Molly squeezed his shoulder briefly before bolting for the front door with Luke in her arms. The demon launched to its feet, charging after them.

Grasping blindly, Dean reached for a shelf on the wall, and pulled it down, spilling an array cook books and utensils across the rakshasa's path. It caused only a minor diversion and the demon leaped deftly over the bric-a-brac. Wielding the shelf board like a bat, Dean swung at the creature, connecting solidly with its head. The demon dog was thrown back, momentarily stunned. It shook its head, clearing the sting of the blow and bounded to its feet, snarling after Dean with reaffirmed wrath, eyes ablaze.

He brandished the plank for another blow, a burn of pain rising up from his gut as he swung. Adrenaline pushed him past the pain. The demon swerved, avoiding the strike. This fight was about to end. Throwing the board at the creature, Dean forgot everything and focused on the door, knowing the rakshasa was a breath at his back. His body screamed as he crashed through the screen, and slammed the front door closed in the face of the demon. The door shook against the creature's wrath as it clawed and pounded on the solid barrier.

At first he didn't even feel the rain on his skin. The front yard wavered, undulating like the world underwater. He blinked a few times, Molly's face coming into focus. "Are you okay?" she asked. Her hand felt cold when she placed it on his cheek. "Hey— Dean?"

"Yeah," he said, refocusing on her. "I'm okay."

Dispassionately, the rain drenched them through in a matter of minutes, fusing cold into their limbs. They heard the demon thrashing around, baying and growling from inside. It wouldn't be long before it caught up to them.

His body was trembling, literally shaking with a dangerous merge of fatigue and adrenaline. _Can't stop—_ they weren't safe by a long shot.

"Listen to me," Dean said, putting his hands on Molly's shoulders. "You and Luke are going to lock yourselves in the Impala. The car has protections on it, you should be safe there."

"You're not coming with us?" she asked, her features wrinkling with concern.

"All the weapons are in the trunk," Dean said. "I'll be with you the whole way."

"But Dean—."

"Don't worry," he said. "This is what I do."

Luke was crying, holding tightly to his mother's neck. "Shh, it's okay," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Dean's going to show us his nice car."

Placing his hand on Molly's shoulder to steady himself, Dean walked them to the car. Though it was only a short distance to the Impala, it might as well have been a mile. The gravely driveway became a muddy mess and the wet earth clung to Dean's boots, weighting his steps, as if his boots were lined with lead. The cold rain and wind were a savage tag team, sapping any reserved strength he might have drawn upon.

_Gotta keep going_, Dean thought. There was no telling how long that front door would hold up against the rakshasa's wrath. _Gotta be ready._ He set his eyes on the Impala, outlining her sleek black shape until it was within arms reach. With a shivering hand he reached out and dragged his fingers along the side of the car as if to anchor himself to familiar territory.

"Get inside," Dean said, moving around to the back of the car. Opening the trunk, he pulled out a few towels and shoved them at Molly before returning to the weapons cache.

As Molly and Luke settled into the Impala, Dean rummaged through the trunk, hands shaking with adrenaline and panic. Where were Sam and Jim? Dean couldn't do this on his own_. I can't— I can't—_ His body still remembered the hunt, but it was slow to his command. Where had this rakshasa come from? Had it crossed Sam's path out there in the woods before descending upon the ranch house? _He's okay,_ Dean thought resolutely. _He has to be._

After dousing the scratches on his arm with holy water he capped the bottle and gave it to Molly. Instantly, the poison started to dissipate and his cloudy mind became clearer. Returning to the trunk, he found the box of blessed bullets and began loading his gun clip. As he stood there shivering, Dean felt anger surge within him. This evil creature had taken something from him that he desperately wanted to reclaim. Dean was going to take it back or let the demon put him out of his current misery. Either way, it was going to end. He slipped a knife into his pocket and another flask of holy water.

Dean tapped on the window and Molly rolled it down quickly, a look of worry still on her face. "Whatever happens," Dean began, "don't leave the car. Wait for me or Sam to come get you."

o0o00O00o0o

The rain let fly before Sam and Jim returned to the house. They'd cleared the hazardous trees and had been splitting the trunks into smaller, more manageable pieces when the sky opened up. By the time they reached the back door they were both wet and cold. Though the physical activity and time away from the house had felt good, allowed him to stretch away the building tension of both body and mind, Sam was glad to be back at the old ranch house. Replaying Dean and Luke's interaction from the morning in his mind, a small smile tugged at his lips. _Finally_, Dean was starting to come back to himself. The relief flooding inside him was a surprise. Sam hadn't realized just how much he worried about his brother until the weight of it began to ebb.

As they came upon the house, Sam noticed that the screen door swung gently on its hinges, knocking against the frame, _slap-bang, slap-bang_. A wide hole was torn through the screen at the bottom.

"Wait," Sam said, throwing his arm out to hold Jim back. Sam approached the door, examining the damage. Claw marks marred the wooden frame. A jab of fear spiked through his gut as he began putting the pieces together.

"Looks like an animal got in here," Jim said from behind him.

"Dean," Sam said instantly. His ears roared as he flung open the screen door, knowing already that he was too late. Sam skidded on something wet on the floor in the kitchen and nearly crashed into the table. A trail of red blood slicked the tile. "Oh, God," Sam whispered, horrified. "What have you done?"

Lighting-fast Sam's mind calculated what had happened, whose blood it was. The kitchen was trashed, claw marks gouging every surface, bloody hand prints too large to be anyone else's but Dean's— _God, where is he?_ If Sam turned the corner and saw his brother torn apart, he knew he would lose it, felt himself teetering just at the cusp of insanity as the thought bristled inside him.

But there was no Dean— no body of any kind. A low growl came from the hallway leading to the front door and Sam suddenly saw a pair of yellow eyes staring at him. The rakshasa paced, blood tainting its sharp claws as they clacked over the tile floor.

"It's not supposed to be in here," Sam breathed. "Rakshasas can't enter a home without being invited." Perhaps this creature was too ancient or too powerful for typical rules to apply. After all if this rakshasa was as ancient as Sam suspected it might even be a demi-god, but for whatever reason it had waltzed right into Jim Martin's home without invitation. After what they had done to its mate and offspring, maybe it didn't need an invitation. Maybe killing its family was invitation enough.

"Jim, get out of here," Sam whispered. When Jim didn't move, Sam said, "Someone has been injured— you can't help him if you're killed. Go."

"Neither can you," Jim shot back. "I'm not leaving you in here."

"Then get to the Impala," Sam replied. "There are weapons in the trunk— salt, guns, blessed bullets."

"Sam, are you—."

"_Go_," Sam insisted.

Jim shot him a worried look before hurrying back out the door. Going into the situation unarmed wasn't the smartest move, but Sam wasn't thinking of that just then. He needed to know where his brother was, needed to know how badly he was injured.

Lightning crashed outside, illuminating the large, black dog as it charged at Sam. Sam jumped back, barely avoiding the demon's grasp. Eyes sweeping for any line of defense, Sam picked up a kitchen chair, using its legs to ward off the demon like a lion tamer at the circus.

It snarled, leaping up onto the chair, its weight knocking Sam off balance. The demon clamored over the wooden seat, trying to get at Sam. Sam pressed the chair back as far as he could, feeling the breath of the demon in his face. It snarled then swiped its paw, catching Sam across the cheek. Using all his strength, Sam flung the chair and the demon back. The chair split apart as it hit the floor, but the demon landed on all fours, lusty revenge in its eyes.

Quickly regaining his stance, Sam put distance between himself and the demon dog, backing into the counter. His cheek stung and he felt warm blood dripping down his face. The raksahsa suddenly flickered, and then disappeared, turning itself invisible.

"Shit," Sam spat, then went straight for the cupboard, tossing spices around until his fingers wrapped around a canister of salt. It wasn't much, but it was all he had.

The rakshasa could be anywhere now, could be right at Sam's throat and he wouldn't know it until it's sharp teeth were ripping through his jugular. Sam threw a handful of salt into the air in front of him to no effect. Pouring a hasty line of salt around himself, Sam heard the sudden scrape of nails across the tile. Leaning across the counter, Sam grabbed for the jar of flour and hurled its contents into the air. A billowy white form to his left pounced at him. Sam pitched another handful of salt at the demon, buying just enough time to complete the salt circle.

Repelled by the barrier, the demon paced back and forth across the floor, flickering back to its visible state. It glared at Sam, furious as it tested the strength of the salt obstacle. The rain droned on incessantly, adding a quick percussive soundtrack to the demon's angry growling.

Scratch marks and blood and chaos— enmity welled within Sam, flushing his skin hot. Beset by the rakshasa, Dean had endured a hurt that could never be undone. Nothing would ever erase the mark of the torturous days following the attack. Sam languished in tandem with his brother and watched helplessly as his only family withered Dean would always have this horror, the feeling of it inside him, the physical scar, and the memory of the cage his mind had been trapped in. Sam would, too, would keep this terror buried deep in his heart.

In pursuit of retribution, the demon had tracked them across the vast Montana terrain, but before the day was out Sam vowed to have his own revenge.

_I don't need a weapon to hurt you_, Sam thought.

Words deliberate and slow, Sam began to chant in Latin, his voice rumbling just above a whisper. The Rakshasa snarled, knowing exactly what Sam was up to. It pushed against the invisible barrier, trying to get at him. Lightning flashed outside, lighting the kitchen up brilliantly, then a crack of thunder so loud and startling that Sam nearly faltered in his incantation. The salt ring made in haste was not perfect. The demon circled around him, furiously looking for a weakness in the barrier. Concentrating on the ancient words, Sam made the dog twitch, torturing it with barely a whisper, pushing it back to Hell one word at a time.

Though the demon could not influence the salt itself that did not mean that the circle could not be affected. A gust of wind came into the kitchen from the torn screen door, scattering salt crystals across the floor. Like a bull teased by a matador, the demon charged at Sam, knocking him down hard. Teeth bared, it went for Sam's neck, wanting to tear the life out of him, but Sam brought his arm up fast, shielding his throat. The demon's bite burned with venom and numbness began to circulate through his body.

Desperately, Sam resumed his chanting in Latin, trying to finish the incantation before he lost sentience. The rakshasa stiffened and released his arm, quivering at the whispered words. Sam scrambled back, still chanting despite his tenuous grasp on consciousness.

A knife hurtled past Sam's shoulder and landed at the feet of the rakashsa, keeping the creature at bay. Stopping just shy of the blade, its eyes filled with renewed hatred. Sam turned his head to see Dean standing at the entrance of the kitchen, looking pale and soaked clean through. He was trembling slightly and there was a look in his eyes that wrung Sam's insides with caution. He appeared unhinged, as if that very fine thread that Dean had been clinging to had finally snapped.

"Get away from my brother," Dean said to the creature, his voice low and dangerous.

Wanting to yell and shout and rage, Sam could do none of these things as the poison from the rakshasa bite worked it's way through him. Sam had no doubt that Dean was primed to do something reckless and stupid and terrifyingly fatal. The demon didn't move, smart enough to know that the hunter wouldn't dare shoot so close to his kin. It growled deep in its throat, a sound terrifying enough to send chills across Sam's skin even as he lay bleeding, losing consciousness on the floor.

_Please, Dean_, Sam thought. _Don't let it destroy you._

With a sudden bound, the demon lunged at Dean, a mass of claws and teeth. Standing his ground, Dean waited, heart beating fast. As the demon came upon him, he struck, pulling a sanctified bronze tipped knife hidden by his side. The demon knocked Dean to the floor and they slid across the tile, coming to a stop towards the front hallway.

Straining to listen through the rainstorm, Sam tried hopelessly to hear who was moving and who was lying still. Had Dean been bitten by the demon dog too? Had he killed it? Had _he_ been killed? The rakshasa growled and whined, but Sam didn't hear his brother. _Dean_, Sam thought panic-stricken. _God, please— please—_ Fruitlessly, Sam raged against his poison prison, unsuccessfully willing his body to his command. _Move! Goddamn you—_ Sam swore at his failing body.

Suddenly, Dean staggered into view, tossing the bloodied knife to the floor. "Sammy," Dean said, dropping to his knees beside him with a grimace. Catching his panicked eyes, Dean placed the flat of his hand on Sam's chest, a calming gesture. Relief washed over Sam and he closed his eyes. _He killed it_, Sam thought. _It's dead. It's dead._

"C'mon Sam, naptime's over," he whispered, probing the bite on Sam's arm with gentle fingers. Reminded of the very start of this ordeal, when that rakshasi had swiped him and Dean had come to his aid then, Sam let out a weak laugh at the horrible cycle they'd traversed. Dean poured a liberal amount of holy water onto the bite, and immediately, the poison began to clear from Sam's system. As Sam's focus sharpened, he felt cold, shaking fingers turning his face and then the cleansing burn of holy water cleaning out the scratch on his cheek.

"You're okay," Dean said reassuringly. "Nothing a little band-aid won't fix," he quipped, even though Sam would need several stitches to close the wound. Sam wanted to reply, to say something, but it would be a few minutes more before his body had caught up with is mind. Dean helped Sam to sit up, keeping careful pressure on his arm wound. He looked ready to drop himself, but he was whole.

A growling snarl was the only warning before a blur of red and black pounced upon them. "Dean!" Sam shouted as the wounded rakshasa sprang at his brother's back. Turning fast, Dean sloshed the rest of the holy water at the demon. It smoked and howled in pain, but it didn't stop, it's anger and rage so great that being gutted was not enough to put it down. With an arm wrapped around his stomach, Dean rose to his feet, pulling the gun from the waistband of his pants. The demon was ready to kill and so was Dean.

"Come and get me you son of a bitch," Dean taunted. He took aim. The rakashsa leaped and Dean fired. The demon fell down dead at Dean's boots. All was still for a moment, and then Dean lowered his gun, letting it fall from his fingers to the floor with a clatter. He took two steps back, lurching for support of the kitchen wall when his legs suddenly lost strength. He slid down the wall to the floor, landing with a slight grunt.

With the last of the poison vanishing, Sam hastened across the floor to his brother's side. "Where are you hurt?" he asked, pulling at his wet clothes. Dean's hand pressed firmly against his stomach, low where the incision was. "M'okay," he said, but Sam didn't believe him. Sam pulled his hand aside and his palm came away red.

"You're bleeding," Sam said, placing his own hand there as if to stop any more blood from escaping.

Dean's arm rose and fell, hand loosely gesturing to the scratches across Sam's cheek and the bite in his arm. "So're you."

But Sam was terrified that he'd remove his hand and Dean's insides would spill out. "Jim!" Sam bellowed, hoping the doctor would hear him wherever he was.

"I made him wait with Molly and Luke in the car," Dean said absently. Now that the threat was truly gone, his energy waned alarmingly fast. "Wanted to bring you weapons. Told him to stay put."

Within minutes Jim appeared in the kitchen, gasping at the gruesome scene. Stepping over the bloody rakshasa corpse, he knelt beside Dean and moved Sam's hand away. Gently he peeled back the layers of wet clothes over Dean's stomach, and examined the source of blood. "He's reopened the incision," Jim announced, looking up at Sam with a frown. "Dean, can you stand up?"

"Yeah," he replied. With Sam's help, he rose to his feet, one hand braced against the wall for balance. Managing no more than a step, Dean buckled, his energy completely tapped. In one motion Sam swept him up in his arms, crossed the room in three quick strides, and hoisted him up onto the kitchen table.

Jim pulled away Dean's clothing, exposing his stomach. "Let me see," he said, gently probing the wound with his fingers. It looked dreadful, an angry bleeding line curving across his abdomen in a horrific smile. "Don't move. Let me get my suture kit." Jim hurried off towards his office to get supplies, leaving the Winchester brothers alone.

Sam loomed over the table, mouth a tight line, brows drawn together with concern. "You're a goddamned stupid fool," he said. "You know that, Dean?"

Dean chuckled softly. "Saved your ass, didn't I?" he replied. He clenched his jaw and kept his gaze focused on the ceiling. "This really fucking hurts," he said.

"You popped your goddamned stitches," Sam replied. "Of course it fucking hurts, jackass."

"Your beside manner sucks, Sammy," Dean said, but he smiled gently because Sam only brought out the really fowl language when he was extremely upset. Sam's eyes strayed down to the blood welling around the incision line, dripping slowly down the curve of his body.

"You are going to take time to rest even if I have to handcuff you to the bed," Sam said.

"Kinky," Dean replied with a grin. But Sam didn't smile back, his eyes locked on the blood, and Dean saw panic set in his little brother's face.

"Hey," Dean said, trying to steer Sam's eyes away. Sam shook his head _no_, still preoccupied by the gaping wound. _"Sam,"_ Dean said, his voice with a commanding edge, causing Sam to finally look at him. "It's okay."

o0o00O00o0o

"Sam, do you have the salt rounds?" Dean was bent over the trunk, rummaging through the weapons compartment. The brothers were leaving Jim Martin's ranch house in the morning, and Dean was going through some sort of separation anxiety tick where he felt it necessary to catalog everything in the Impala's trunk.

Bending down, Sam picked up a container by Dean's boots. "Here," he said, holding the box out to him.

"Thanks," Dean said, grabbing and tossing the rounds into the trunk. Another minute of sifting through before he said, "I can't find—."

"Whatever it is, Dean, it's gotta be there," Sam said, cutting him off. "You've inventoried the trunk twice now." He moved closer, herding his brother back with a gentle arm, and closed the trunk. "Take it easy, man."

It was six weeks after the showdown with the rakshasa in Jim's kitchen and the brothers were finally ready to hit the road. After reopening his wound, Dean had required more stitches and a longer recovery period. It was slow going— Dean still struggled, grappling with bouts of depression, but he'd gained something from the fight with the demon, and was finally on the path to recovery.

Three days after the attack, Dean had insisted on helping Sam dispose of the rakshasa corpse. It was their first major fight in weeks, in the end Sam relented, despite his fears that Dean would push himself too far again. Sam drove them back to the spot where he'd burned the baby demon corpse. With his incision wound freshly stitched, Dean could not help Sam move the demon but he stood by with the lighter fluid and a book of matches. Standing shoulder to shoulder, watching the demon burn brought a sense of catharsis to both brothers. After that, time went by quickly as Dean regained strength. One day when he and Sam were sitting on the new porch, he said, "I think I'm ready."

Saddened that their time together was coming to an end, Jim offered his place up to the pair any time. With the front porch finally rebuilt, all that remained was a new coat of paint. Sam and Dean promised to come back in a year after the wood had cured to paint it.

Another vehicle pulled up to the driveway, tires crackling over the rough gravel. Molly stepped out of the car, a big smile on her face. "Hi fellas," she said, before turning to gather Luke from the backseat. She'd come out from the city to see them off on their last night. Molly happened to be a formidable presence, just like her father. While the rakshasa attack set her on edge for a day or two, she had stayed on at the Ranch to help patch up Sam and Dean before returning with Luke to the city.

Luke had been scared for a long time after the rakshasa attack, but he proved to be a resilient boy, and wanted to say goodbye, too. He tottered up to Dean with his arms outstretched. Still recovering, Dean couldn't pick up him, but he stooped down to Luke's level and accepted the little boy's hug. Sam looked fondly at his brother, a feeling of pride swelling his chest.

Ever vigilant, Sam kept Dean under constant scrutiny, unable to keep his gaze from straying to the incision line. Dean was healing both inside and out, but Sam was stagnating, the same gripping worries crippling him over and over. _Traumatized—_ He scoffed at himself, at his own foolish worry. Still, he couldn't seem to shake his fear for Dean. In vivid detail, he remembered the operating room, seeing his brother split upon the slab; he remembered the feeling of helplessness as his brother sank like an anchor in a sea of despair.

Pushing these thoughts away, Sam plastered a smile on his face and went over to greet Molly.

o0o00O00o0o

Dinner with Jim, Molly and Luke made for a very pleasant evening filled with laughter. Luke regaled them with stories and picture of his own making before his bedtime. Jim and Dean traded funny stories about Molly and Sam growing up, while Sam and Molly denied them up and down.

When the night was over, the brothers retreated into their shared bedroom for the last time. Though weeks had passed since Dean's life-saving surgery, and the rakshasa attacks, Sam was still plagued by nightmares nearly every night. And their last night in Jim's house was no exception.

Sam rolled over onto his side, facing away from Dean, trying to keep his emotions in. After so many horrible visions of his brother coming apart, Sam thought he'd be used to it by now. But it still upset him every single time.

"This has to stop, Sam," Dean said softly, startling Sam from his thoughts.

"Go back to sleep, Dean," Sam said, still facing away from him. It was silent a moment before Sam heard his brother get up, gingerly still, even after six weeks, and then felt the mattress dip slightly.

Sam rolled onto his back, beginning to say, "Dean, really, just—," but he stopped when he saw Dean standing beside the bed, one knee up on the mattress for balance. He had his thumbs hooked into the elastic band of his boxers and his shirt was hitched up over his hands.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked sitting up straight, but he knew exactly what Dean was about to do.

Slowly, he pulled down the top of his boxers letting them rest just below his hipbones, exposing the six-inch horizontal scar across his lower abdomen.

The scar was a raised striation, puffy, and darker than the rest of his skin. But it wasn't anything like what Sam had seen a few hours after the surgery, or even the angry red line when his stitches had torn. And it didn't look like it was about to split open either. But in his mind's eye that's exactly what he saw— blood and intestines dropping out, his brother eviscerated right before his eyes.

"I'm okay, Sam," Dean said evenly.

Emotion rose in his throat and Sam made a strangled noise trying to squash it back down. Dean leaned forward, reaching for Sam's hand. His grip was strong, fighting Sam's mild resistance as he pulled his hand to his stomach, pressing Sam's hand firmly over the scar.

His body was warm and Sam could feel Dean's muscles quivering against the strain. Sam's heart thundered as images of splitting flesh and spilling blood fill him and Sam wanted to pull his hand away, but Dean held fast applying firm pressure against the incision. It must have caused him pain to put pressure on the tender flesh, but Dean didn't say a word, didn't even flinch.

The skin didn't split; it felt solid, strong. Dean was strong.

"Sam," Dean said again, his fierce eyes capturing Sam's, "I'm okay."

Sam felt his resolve break, pent up anxiety mixed with relief released and a small sob escaped his lips. Dean knelt up onto the bed, taking Sam into a tight embrace. Wrapping his arms around Dean, ear pressed to his chest, Sam let his worry break free, silent tears streaming down his face. The steady beating of Dean's heart and his solid embrace was unyielding comfort that Sam desperately needed.

"It's okay," Dean whispered into Sam's hair, more gentle in his strength than Sam thought he ever could be.

"I believe you," Sam whispered back. And he did.

They left at daybreak, Dean at the wheel and Sam in the passenger's side, a sense of contentment washing over them in the early morning light as the brothers left Montana behind them.

_Fin_

o0o00O00o0o

Author's Note:

I'm so SORRY this last chapter took me FOREVER and a day to get out there! I spent a lot of time working out the action sequences and my grad school studies have just swallowed up all my free time. I hope you all liked the story as I really enjoyed writing it. Big THANKS everybody for reading and sending those comments along :) I really appreciate all the readers and reviews more than I can say.

So, I feel this bit of crack!fic needs a little bit of explanation… I _dreamed_ this—It was THE strangest dream EVER— EVER— It was horrific, woke me right the hell up in the middle of it and then when I went back to sleep I kept on dreaming it in gloriously gruesome detail. I don't know why I dreamed this. I do kinda have a thing for Dean and kids, but not really Dean and pregnancy and certainly not Dean and demon!pregnancy… lol, but I mustn't dislike it too much 'cause I dreamed/wrote this! I tried to capture the horror I felt while I was dreaming.

I pretty much know nothing about medical procedures, but I did TONS of research in preparation of this fic, which included Q&A with a few doctors and nurses about c-sections and surgery and, um, plausibility _(What do you mean demon mpreg isn't believable? It _so_ is!) _I also really read up about Post Partum Depression so there would be some authenticity to Dean's behavior and Sam's reactions. I tried my best to make it as realistic as I could, but at the end of the day you still have to suspend your disbelief and chalk it up to fiction.

I really hope you liked it— my first foray into crack!fic. Up next I have a very short two-parter, which is going in an entirely different direction for me (a little bit darker, different sort of writing style, definitely leaning towards an R rating). Please check out my LJ for details. I don't want to spoil it but at the same time I need to warn my usual readers that this is something very different than what I normally write (well, not _too_ different—lots of hurt!Dean and angst!Sam).

Thanks so much everybody! I love hearing from you guys, so drop me a line every now and then.

Other things: You can also read this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer. I post pretty much everything over there. If you want, feel free to friend me. No need to ask.

Email is linked in the bio page. Don't be a stranger!

Thanks for reading.

- Li


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